483G 


MARK 


'Every  morning  Sire  rode  over  on  a  big  black  horse" 


Froiitls|>l«M-i' 


MARK 


BY 


FRANCES   NEWBOLD  NOYES 


"Mais  que  diable  allait-il  faire — qu'allait-il  faire 
dans  cette  galfere?" 

CYRANO  DE  BEROEBAC 


New  York 

Edward  J.  Clode 
Publisher 


COPTBIOHT,   1912,  BT 

PRANCES  NKWBOLD  NOTES 

COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BT 
EDWARD    J.   CLODE 


TO    MY    PLAYMATE 

NEWBOLD 


2137463 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  CURTAIN  RISES 3 

II.    ENTER  PRISCILLA 9 

III.  ENTER  CAESAR 30 

IV.  ENTER  THE  LADY  IN  GREEN        ...  51 
V.    THK  PLOT  UNFOLDS 82 

VI.  EXIT  A  MINOR  CHARACTER  ....  109 

VII.    THE  PLOT  THICKENS 118 

VIII.  C^SAR  HOLDS  THE  STAGE     .       .       .        .139 

IX.    ENTER  A  DOLL 159 

X.    A  TRITE  SITUATION 174 

XI.    CAESAR  PROMPTS 193 

XII.  MARK  MISSES  His  CUE          ....  212 

XIII.  THE  LADY  IN  GREEN  SHOWS  MUCH  TALENT  233 

XIV.  AN  UNEXPECTED  COMPLICATION  .       .       .  239 
XV.    THE  CURTAIN  FALLS 251 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  FRED  PEGRAM 

"Every  morning  Sire  rode  over  on  a  big  black  horse" 

Frontispiece 
PAGE 
"I  said,  'I  think  you'd  better  go,  because  Felicity 

will  be  lonely'" 26 

There  he  stood !  Her  playmate  had  come  back  .  50 
"It  is  Priscilla!  I  knew  she  was  here"  ...  77 

' '  Marry  you ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  must  be  dream- 
ing!"      115 

"Am  I  so  wonderful?" 117 

"She  looks  as  stupid  as  most  patient  people,"  he 

remarked 167 

"Dear  Caesar!  did  you  do  it  on  purpose?"  .  .  209 
"The  only  one? "asked  Priscilla  softly  .  .  .  215 
For  a  minute  Jacqueline's  soul  sickened  within  her  236 


MARK 


Mark 


THE  CURTAIN  RISES 


""¥"    "W"E'S   enchanting,"    said   Lady 

I 1    Mordaunt  expressively,  "  en- 

•*-  -*•  chanting!  I  can't  bear  hav- 
ing him  out  of  my  sight!  He  shall 
dine  with  us  to-night!  Let  me  see — 
there  will  be  you,  Isabel,  and  Ar- 
thur, and  the  Cortie,  and  Jacqueline 
Campbell,  and  Leonard  and  Eliza- 
beth, and  Gordon  Markham  Spencer, 
child  of  Nature  and  future  Mar- 
quis of  Lytton.  It  will  be  a  beautiful 
party!" 

"  It  will  be  a  ridiculous  party,"  said 
Isabel  Gordon,  smiling  down  from  her 
slender  height.  "  As  for  your  Spencer 
man,  he  is  quite,  quite  mad,  my  poor 
Gertrude!  I  talked  to  him  for  five  min- 
utes, and  I  still  feel  mildly  insane.  He's 
infectious." 

[3] 


Mark 

"  He's  enchanting,"  repeated  Lady 
Mordaunt  defiantly,  "  and  I'm  going  to 
ask  him  now.  Mr.  Spencer!  " 

The  tall  figure  looking  down  over  the 
terrace  turned  swiftly,  and  the  two 
women  caught  their  breath  at  sight  of 
him.  He  was  extraordinary  enough  to 
make  any  woman  catch  her  breath.  Put 
Praxiteles'  Hermes  into  the  most  uncon- 
ventional of  white  flannels,  knot  a  scar- 
let tie  about  his  partly  bared  throat, 
crop  his  curls  so  close  that  only  the 
strong  ripple  in  the  burnished  gold  be- 
trays their  erstwhile  existence,  flash 
through  the  still  marble  a  current  of 
such  joyous  vitality,  such  life  and  color, 
as  was  the  birthright  of  the  world's 
childhood  before  the  children  of  gods 
and  men  sacrificed  it  to  Mammon,— 
such  was  Gordon  Markham  Spencer,  he 
whom  Gertrude  Mordaunt  called  enchant- 
ing and  Isabel  Gordon  termed  mad. 
Then  he  was  on  them  with  such  an  eager 
rush  that  Isabel  caught  herself  search- 
ing for  the  wings  at  his  heels. 
[4] 


Mark 

1  You  wanted  me?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  wanted  you  badly,"  nodded  Lady 
Mordaunt.  '*  Will  you  dine  with  us  to- 
night at  eight,  Mr.  Spencer? " 

"How  good  of  you!"  cried  Gordon 
Markham  Spencer  gratefully.  "But  I 
believe  that  I'd  rather  not." 

*  You  believe ! "  echoed  Lady  Mor- 
daunt blankly,  putting  down  her  teacup 
with  great  care.  "  Oh,  I  see — another 
engagement." 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  replied,  shaking  his  head 
with  that  radiant  smile  that  hurt  because 
of  its  sheer  beauty.  "  It's  nothing  so 
imposing.  But  I'm  in  the  middle  of  the 
most  thrilling  book,  Lady  Mordaunt!  It 
almost  broke  my  heart  to  come  this  after- 


noon." 


'  Then,"  asked  Lady  Mordaunt  me- 
chanically, lifting  the  cup  to  her  lips, 
"  then  why  did  you  come?  " 

"  Cynthia  cried,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  She's  my  cousin,  you  know,  and  she 
cried  dreadfully,  and  said  that  people 
would  take  me  for  a  barbarian  if  I  never 

[5] 


Mark 

went  anywhere.  I  hated  to  see  her  cry; 
so  I  came."  And  he  added  reminis- 
cently,  "  I  hated  to  come,  too." 

Lady  Mor daunt  shook  herself  slightly. 
"  Mr.  Spencer,  if  I  cried  too,  dreadfully, 
would  you  come?" 

'*  Why,  I  suppose  so,"  he  said  simply. 
"  But  I  hope  that  you  won't.  Because 
I  can't  tell  you  how  much  interested  I 
am  in  that  hook." 

'  Very  well,  then,  I  won't.  What  is 
the  wonderful  book?  I  must  read  it." 

"  It's  called  *  Ivanhoe,'  and  it's  by  a 
man  named  Scott.    Have  you  read  it? " 
'  Ivanhoe ' ! "  broke  in  Isabel  exult- 
antly.    "  Oh,  kind  saints — '  Ivanhoe  '!  " 

He  flashed  on  her,  radiant,  "You've 
read  it?  That's  wonderful!  And  you 
love  it,  of  course?  " 

"  I  have  a  vague  recollection,"  replied 
Isabel,  lazy  mockery  in  every  syllable, 
"  that  I  had  a  misguided  affection  for  it 
at  one  time,  when  my  mind  was  as  ab- 
breviated as  my  frocks." 

The  future  Marquis  of  Lytton  con- 

[6] 


Mark 

templated  her  gravely.  "  I  think  that 
I  should  have  liked  you  better  then,"  he 
informed  her  serenely,  and  turned  back 
to  Lady  Mordaunt.  "  Please,  who  is 
that  extraordinarily  attractive  girl  sit- 
ting down  there  quite  alone,  under  the 
big  tree,  over  there? " 

"The  one  in  white?  Oh,  that's  the 
little  American,  Priscilla  Hampden. 
The  only  commonplace  thing  about  her 
is  her  American  millions:  everything  else 
is  quite  unusual.  In  the  first  place, 
she's  from  Boston,  and  that  is  a  blessed 
relief  from  New  York  and  Chicago. 
And  then — oh,  well,  you'll  have  to  meet 
her  to  appreciate  what  I  mean.  Some 
day  I'll  introduce  you." 

"  Why,"  demanded  Isabel,  a  small, 
stifled  yawn  lurking  behind  her  amuse- 
ment, "  why  be  introduced?  Why  not 
just  go  up  to  her,  Mr.  Spencer,  and 
say  that  you  consider  her  extraordinarily 
attractive?  " 

"  Why  not?"  cried  Mark.  "  Oh,  you 
are  forgiven  your  sins,  Mrs.  Gordon — 

m 


Mark 

that's  a  glorious  idea!  May  I  go  now, 
Lady  Mordaunt,  and  are  my  sins  for- 
given too?  Thank  you  for  being  so 
good."  And  he  was  gone. 

"Do  you  think  he  will?"  demanded 
Lady  Mordaunt  in  scandalized  delight. 
"Oh,  he  can't— it's  absurd!" 

Isabel  merely  bent  thoughtful  eyes  on 
the  tall  figure  swinging  down  the  ter- 
race and  across  the  green  lawn,  a  figure 
as  strangely  incongruous  in  all  that  pleas- 
ant, worldly  company  as  some  young 
pagan  god  would  have  been,  and  as 
divinely  unconscious.  Straight  to  his 
goal  he  strode,  and  then  halted,  golden 
head  bent.  There  was  an  instant's  pause, 
and  then— 

"Upon — my — soul!"  breathed  Lady 
Mordaunt.  "Isabel!" 

But  that  young  woman  leaned  back, 
smiling  inscrutably.  "Didn't  I  tell 
you,"  she  murmured  unfeelingly,  "  that 
he  was  mad?" 


[8] 


II 


ENTER  PRISCILLA 


HAVING  reached  his  destination,  Mark 
lost  no  time  in  idle  parley.  "  Do  you 
mind,"  he  asked,  with  that  surprising 
smile,  "if  I  talk  to  you?  You  looked 
so  cool,  and  pretty,  and  interesting,  and 
I  was  rather  lonely." 

The  small  young  lady  in  the  large 
chair  scrutinized  him  for  a  moment  with 
a  pair  of  mysterious  blue-green  eyes. 
Then  she  nodded,  sparkling.  "  I  don't 
mind  a  bit.  But  I'm  afraid  that  it  will 
be  difficult  to  live  up  to  your  very  gen- 
erous expectations." 

'  You're  surpassing  them  every  min- 
ute," he  declared,  and  sat  down.  "  Don't 
let's  talk  for  a  minute,  because  I  want 
to  look  at  you.  I  can't  do  that  properly 
when  I  talk." 

Whereupon  he  proceeded  to  inspect 
her  with  the  astounding  intensity  that 
he  brought  to  bear  on  all  things.  He 

[9] 


Mark 

saw  a  slight  figure,  exquisitely  gar- 
mented in  white,  and  a  pale,  sweet  little 
face.  He  saw  braids  of  shining  dark 
hair  bound  round  the  shapely  small 
head,  heavy-lashed  shimmering  eyes,  a 
very  straight  little  nose,  and  a  thin- 
lipped  scarlet  mouth  that  was  always 
drooping,  only  to  be  valorously  quirked 
up  at  the  corners — a  very  well  trained 
mouth,  in  spite  of  its  rebellious  pro- 
clivities! He  saw  a  pair  of  slim  hands, 
velvety  white  and  restless,  and  a  little, 
smooth,  round  neck  like  a  child's — there 
was  a  good  deal  of  the  child  about 
her.  She  had  a  look  of  sophisticated  un- 
worldliness,  such  as  Eve  must  have  worn 
after  she  had  partaken  of  the  apple. 
And  there  was  a  demure  gayety, 
a — 

"Well?"  broke  in  the  object  of  his 
scrutiny. 

"  Oh,  very  well!  "  he  rejoined  happily. 

"And  now  we  can  talk  beautifully.     I 

am  Gordon  Markham  Spencer,  and  you 

are  Priscilla  Hampden.     I  like  you  so 

[10] 


Mark 

much  that  I  shall  call  you  Priscilla  at 
once,  and  you  must  call  me  Mark  whether 
you  like  me  or  not." 

"Agreed!"  cried  Priscilla  gleefully. 
"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  game !  When 
did  you  decide  all  this — Mark? " 

"All  what?" 

"  Oh,  all  this — this  pose,  you  know." 

"  Priscilla,  I  might  just  as  well  tell 
you  now  that  I'm  dreadfully  stupid 
about  a  great  many  things.  I'm  afraid 
you  will  have  to  tell  me  what  '  pose ' 
means." 

'  Why,  it  means  not  being  natural, 
trying  to  be  like  someone  else,  you 
know." 

"  Oh,  of  course — pretending.  Well, 
I  do  pretend  a  good  deal;  but  it's  for 
Cynthia,  my  cousin.  She  cries  such  a 
lot  if  I  don't,  poor  child!" 

"How  do  you  pretend?"  asked  Pris- 
cilla, with  absorbed  interest. 

"Well,  I  pretend  that  I  don't  think 
that  all  this  kind  of  thing,"  with  an  ex- 
pressive wave  of  his  hand,  "is  idiotic. 

[11] 


Mark 

And  I  do  think  that  it  is  perfectly  idiotic. 
It  seems  to  me  that  everyone  in  Eng- 
land is  pretending  all  the  time.  But  it 
worries  Cynthia  dreadfully  when  I  talk 
like  that;  so  I  don't  do  it  any  more.  I 
pretend  that  I've  gotten  over  it.  Any- 
one who  didn't  know  me  would  believe 
that  I  was  just  like  all  these  other  peo- 
ple." 

"  Oh,"  queried  Priscilla,  in  dubious 
amusement,  "  would  he?  " 

'  Why,  of  course.  The  clothes  are 
a  little  different;  but  outside  of  that— 
oh,  you  can't  imagine  how  beautifully 
conventional  I  am,  to  please  Cynthia. 
'  Conventional,'  I've  discovered,  means 
all  the  things  that  I  ought  to  be  and  am 
not.  So  it's  the  fine  art  of  pretending, 
Priscilla,  at  which  I  am  becoming  a  past 
master."  He  looked  so  radiantly  tri- 
umphant that  Priscilla  contented  herself 
with  laughing. 

"  Do  you  always  speak  to  strange 
young  ladies?"  she  asked  finally. 

"  Of   course   not !     I    don't   want   to 


Mark 

speak  to  them.     I'm  afraid  of  young 
ladies,  Priscilla." 

"Afraid— you?    Why?" 

"  They — cry,"  he  explained  vaguely, 
reminiscent  of  Cousin  Cynthia,  "  or  else 
they're  so  agitated.  What  on  earth  do 
you  suppose  I  say  that  could  agitate 
them? " 

'  What  indeed? "  mocked  Priscilla. 
"  From  my  cursory  acquaintance  with 
the  maidens  of  England,  I  shudder  to 
think  of  the  havoc  that  you  have 
wrought.  Agitated!  Oh,  my  poor 
friend!" 

"  I  can't  understand  it  a  bit,"  said 
Mark  thoughtfully.  "Do  I  do  such 
strange  things? " 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Priscilla,  "  it's  the 
rest  of  us  who  are  strange." 

"  I  suppose  that's  it,"  he  agreed  sim- 
ply. "  People  are  awfully  queer,  it 
seems  to  me.  And  it's  so  tiring  to  pre- 
tend! "  He  sat  staring  into  space,  hands 
clasped  loosely  about  his  knees,  and  Pris- 
cilla studied  him  covertly. 

[13] 


Mark 

In  that  vivid,  mobile  face  his  eyes 
looked  strangely  still,  two  dark,  clear 
sentinels  of  his  soul,  quiet,  unfathom- 
able, serene,  such  eyes  as  she  had  seen 
once  in  a  little  child  and  once  in  an  old 
sailor;  but  in  that  vital,  beautiful  young 
face  they  seemed  strangely  incongruous. 
They  were  as  old  as  the  world,  and  as 
young  as  an  April  morning.  And, 
as  she  looked,  they  turned  to  her 
and  the  strangeness  vanished.  They 
were  still  a  little  remote,  but  very 
friendly. 

"Don't  let's  pretend,  Priscilla!"  he 
cried  gayly.  "  Let's  form  a  society  of 
two, — a  Society  for  the  Prevention  of 
Cruelty  to  Nature, — I  think  that's  rather 
nice, — or  the  Society  for  the  Protection 
and  Preservation  of  Children  of  Nature. 
Do  you  like  that  better? " 

"  I'm  afraid  that  it  would  have  to  be 
a  society  of  one,"  regretted  Priscilla. 
"  I'm  a  pampered  product  of  an  effete 
though  youthful  civilization,  and  conse- 
quently hopelessly  ineligible.  But  I 
[14] 


Mark 

didn't  think  you  could  be  a  child  of  Na- 
ture if  you  knew  it." 

'  You  couldn't  help  knowing  it,  if  it 
was  borne  in  on  you  a  dozen  times  a  day. 
And  c  barbarian  ' !  Oh,  the  crushing  in- 
flection with  which  that  is  leveled  at 
my  defenseless  head,  Priscilla!"  He 
laughed  blithely  up  at  her  for  sympathy. 
"  But,  on  my  honor,  I  can't  see  what  I 
do  that  is  strange.  I  do  just  what 
seems  right  to  me,  and  say  what  I  think. 
Is  that  so  wrong?  " 

"  Oh,  divinely,  hopelessly  wrong! " 
laughed  Priscilla.  "  Please,  did  you 
grow  in  England?" 

"  Please,  I  didn't.  I  grew  in  Aus- 
tralia, and  I've  been  in  England  for  only 
about  two  weeks.  Until  about  fifteen 
minutes  ago  I  quite  hated  it;  but  now 
I'm  beginning  to  see  the  error  of  my 
ways.  I  think  that  I  like  England, 
Priscilla." 

"England  is  honored!"  laughed  the 
girl.  "  I  think — that  I'd  like  to  hear 
about  you,  if  it  isn't  impertinent.  As 

[15] 


Mark 

the  hero  says  to  the  heroine  in  the 
dime  novel,  '  Say  on — you  interest  me 
strangely.' ' 

'What's  a  dime  novel?  Never  mind: 
if  you  once  start  explaining  things,  we 
shall  never  get  on.  And  you  interest 
me,  too;  though  that's  not  a  bit  strange. 
You're  the  most  attractive  person  that 
I've  ever  met  out  of  a  book,  by  far! 
Before  I  came  here  I  was  quite  mad 
about  Rebecca.  Do  you  know  Re- 
becca? " 

"Rebecca?" 

"  In  the  most  gorgeous  book  called 
'  Ivanhoe.'  Have  you  read  it?  " 

Priscilla  nodded  helplessly.  '  You 
mean  the  Jewess,  don't  you?" 

"  Of  course.  I've  always  liked  Jews 
enormously,  haven't  you?  I  mean  in 
books:  I've  never  really  known  any. 
But  they're  so  poetic  and  everything, 
you  know,  and  then  they've  had  such 
wretched  luck!  And  I  was  really  quite 
mad  about  Rebecca,  at  first;  but  now 
I'm  beginning  to  think  that  I  like  her 
[16] 


Mark 

better  between  two  covers.  She'd  be 
rather  horrid  to  talk  to,  wouldn't 
she?" 

"  I  don't  think  that  one  would  call 
her  exactly  '  chatty,' ' '  agreed  Priscilla 
gravely. 

"  No,  that's  just  it.  She's  too  large 
and  noble  and  dignified.  I'm  afraid 
that  we'd  be  unsympathetic:  she's  not 
like  you! " 

"  How  about  Rowena?  " 

"  Oh,  Rowena!  "  cried  Mark  scornfully. 
"  Rowena  is  a  stick!  Not  that  she  isn't 
a  fine  woman,"  he  added  hastily;  "but 
she's  such  a  bore!  And  she's  big,  too. 
I  don't  like  big  people, — women,  any- 
way,— not  any  more.  It's  the  men  that 
I  like  in  '  Ivanhoe,'  Priscilla — they  were 
such  splendid  chaps!  To  tell  you  the 
truth,"  he  added  disconsolately,  "  I  don't 
get  on  very  well  with  the  men  here.  It's 
queer,  isn't  it? " 

He  looked  so  much  like  a  hurt  child 
that  Priscilla  frowned  a  little.  Ten  min- 
utes ago  she  had  thought  that  he  was 

[17] 


Mark 

some  young  god  come  back  to  earth,  and 
now—  She  shook  herself  slightly:  in 
a  few  minutes  she  would  wake  up. 

"  Didn't  you  know  any  men  in  Aus- 
tralia?" she  demanded  suspiciously. 

"  None  except  my  father.  The  serv- 
ants were  all  Chinese,  and  I  never  saw 
anything  of  the  farmhands.  My  father 
didn't  want  me  to." 

'What  was  he  like,  your  father?" 
asked  Priscilla,  her  voice  softened.  ;'  Do 
you  mind  telling  me  ? " 

"Mind?  Good  Heavens,  no!  But— I 
can't.  There  never  was  anyone  just  like 
him,  you  see;  so  describing  wouldn't  do 
much  good.  Only — have  you  ever  read 
about  Arthur?  " 

"Do  you  mean  King  Arthur?  " 

"Yes,  Arthur  of  Camelot.  I  think 
that  my  father  must  have  been  like  him; 
only  more  human,  you  know.  We  al- 
ways called  him  Sire,  because  Felicity 
thought  so,  too.  Perhaps  it  was  Lance- 
lot, only  finer.  That  was  the  first  book 
I  ever  read,  and  then  the  Iliad  and  the 
[18] 


Mark 

Odysse)'.  I — I'm  afraid  that  I  like  them 
better  than  the  Bible,  Priscilla." 

Priscilla  stirred  a  little,  with  a  ripple 
of  sympathetic  laughter.  "  Breathe  it 
low  in  England,"  she  admonished. 

"I  do  breathe  it  low  now,"  laughed 
this  shameless  one  ruefully.  "  Cynthia 
and  Uncle  Hal  nearly  died  when  I  told 
them — really  they  did!  It  was  simply 
awful.  Uncle  Hal's  a  Bishop,  you 
know." 

"Heavenly  powers!"  ejaculated  Pris- 
cilla piously. 

"  I  didn't  know,"  explained  Mark, — 
"  about  the  Bible,  I  mean.  I  thought  it 
was  just  like  any  other  book,  except 
that  I  liked  it  better  because  there  were 
some  bully  fights  in  it,  and  parts  of  it 
just  sing.  And  David  was  a  corker! 
But  I  don't  think  that  the  men  were 
such  true  gentlemen  as  Arthur's  knights, 
or  as  good  fighters  as  Achilles.  And 
some  of  them  weren't  honorable,  and 
none  of  them  were  chivalrous, — in  the 
Old  Testament,  I  mean:  the  New  Testa- 

[19] 


Mark 

ment's  different.  I'm  awfully  keen 
about  Saint  Paul." 

"Oh!"  gasped  Priscilla  a  trifle  hys- 
terically. '  The  poor  Bishop — my  heart 
goes  out  to  him!  " 

Mark  propped  his  head  on  his  fists, 

clear-eyed  and  a  little  stern.      '  I'm  not 

very  fond  of  Uncle  Hal,"  he  told  her. 

'  You  see,  he  says  that  my  mother  wasn't 

a  good  woman." 

"  Wasn't " 

"  But  I  think  that  that's  rather  ab- 
surd, because  the  Bible  says  that  the 
wicked  are  always  unhappy,  and  my 
mother  was — why,  she  just  was  Happi- 
ness! Even  her  name  was  Felicity.  I 
never  see  sunshine,  or  flowers,  or  hear 
birds  sing  or  children  laugh,  without 
thinking  of  her,  Priscilla.  She  used  to 
sing  all  day  long,  and  she  never  walked: 
she  ran.  The  last  thing  that  I  used  to 
hear  when  I  went  to  bed  was  Felicity 
laughing,  and  when  I  woke  up  in  the 
morning  she  was  always  singing,  sing- 
ing! Nobody  is  happy  like  that  in  Eng- 
[20] 


Mark 

land,  except  the  children.  And  they  say 
that  they're  noisy — noisy,  when  they're 
laughing.  No,  I  don't  think  that  I'll 
ever  understand  England." 

'  Why  did  your  uncle  say  she  wasn't 
good?"  asked  Priscilla  softly. 

'  Well,  you  see,  she  was  married  when 
Sire  met  her,  and  her  husband  was  just 
a  fiend,  and  ages  older  than  she  was. 
And  of  course  she  loved  Sire — anyone 
would!  She  stood  it  just  as  long  as  she 
could,  and  then  she  went  to  Sire  and 
asked  him  to  take  her  away  because  she 
couldn't  bear  it  any  longer.  So  he  took 
her  to  Australia  where  he  had  a  farm, 
and  she  lived  in  the  overseer's  cottage 
with  her  old  nurse.  Sire  said  that  he 
could  be  his  own  overseer,  and  he  was. 
It  had  roses  all  over  it,  that  cottage,  and 
a  dear  little  garden,  just  like  the  ones  in 
the  stories,  Priscilla.  Felicity  said  she 
started  in  being  happy  then — and  she 
never  had  time  to  stop!  Every  morning 
Sire  used  to  ride  over  on  a  big  black 
horse — early,  early! — and  throw  pebbles 

[21] 


Mark 

at  her  window  to  wake  her  up.  And 
she'd  come  down  to  him,  and  they'd  go 
and  get  strawberries  for  breakfast,  and 
fill  all  the  bowls  with  flowers,  and  play 
till  it  was  time  for  luncheon.  They  al- 
ways used  to  play,  Priscilla — you'd  think 
it  was  silly,  if  it  weren't  so  beautiful. 
Then  it  would  be  time  for  luncheon,  and 
they'd  have  it  outside,  sitting  on  the 
grass,  just  big  bowls  of  milk  and  bread 
and  cheese, — everything  but  kisses,  Fe- 
licity said.  I  don't  see  how  he  could 
help  kissing  her,  my  little  lovely  mother! 
Only,  when  he  went  away,  Felicity 
would  pick  him  the  very  loveliest  rose 
that  grew  over  the  cottage,  and  kiss  it 
deep  in  its  heart;  and  he  would  kiss  it, 
too.  Afterward — when  they'd  gone,  you 
know — I  found  a  little  carved  chest  in 
his  room,  and  when  I  opened  it,  it  was 
full  of  queer  little  hard  brown  things- 
dead  roses,  Priscilla.  They'd  been  there 
for  all  those  years,  the  poor  little  ugly 
things,  and  they'd  been  so  sweet  and 
beautiful, — lovely  and  velvety,  crimson 
[22] 


Mark 

and  pink  and  golden, — and  now  they 
were  dead!  I  hadn't  cried  when  Felicity 
went  away,  nor  when  Sire  did,  either; 
but  I  cried  then — it's  horrible  to  cry." 

Priscilla's  hands  flew  out  to  him  im- 
pulsively: only  to  be  withdrawn  and 
firmly  folded  in  her  lap.  "  Did  she  al- 
ways live  in  the  little  cottage? "  she 
asked. 

"  Oh,  no !  After  awhile  the  devil  in 
England  died,  and  Sire  and  Felicity 
were  married,  and  I  was  born.  There 
were  three  of  us  to  play  then,  and  the 
cottage  was  too  little;  so  we  went  to  live 
in  the  farmhouse.  We  lived  there  for 
nineteen  years — till  Felicity  went  away." 

"  How  did  she — go  away?  "  whispered 
the  girl. 

"  I  think  she  was  too  happy,"  said 
Mark  simply.  '  The  doctors  say  that 
it  was  heart  trouble;  but  I  think  that  she 
was  just  too  happy.  You  can't  be  so 
glad  as  that,  and  live.  She  had  gone 
down  into  the  garden  to  pick  flowers  one 
day,  and  Sire  called  to  her  from  the 

[23] 


Mark 

house,  and  she  started  to  run  to  him, 
the  way  she  always  did,  you  know, — and 
then  she  tripped — and  fell.  And  when 
we  got  there  she  had  gone  away — died, 
you  call  it." 

"  How  terrible ! "  choked  Priscilla. 
"Oh,  Mark,  how  terrible!" 

"  It  wasn't  so  terrible  as  it  was 
strange,"  said  Mark.  "  It  was  as  if,  all 
of  a  sudden,  the  world  was  empty. 
Just  a  minute  before  she  had  been  there, 
singing  and  laughing — and  then  all  the 
singing  had  gone  away  and  all  the  laugh- 
ter stopped.  It  was  quite  empty." 

'What  happened  to  your  father?" 
asked  Priscilla,  and  her  face  twisted 
with  pity  at  the  thought. 

"  He  shot  himself,"  said  Mark  quietly. 

"  No!  "  flamed  the  girl.  "  No!  How 
could  he  be  so  cruel?" 

"  Oh,  he  asked  me  first,  you  see.  He 
stood  it  for  a  long  time;  but  I  could  see. 
I'd  come  on  him  sometimes  with  his  head 
bent  a  little,  as  though  he  were  listening 
• — and  I  knew  that  he  was  listening  to 
[24] 


Mark 

hear  Felicity  laugh.  One  night — it  was 
awfully  late;  but  I  couldn't  go  to  sleep, 
because  I  could  hear  him  below  in  the 
garden — he  came  to  my  door  and 
knocked.  He  said,  '  Are  you  awake, 
Galahad? '  He  and  Felicity  used  to 
call  me  Galahad — just  for  a  joke,  you 
know:  Galahad  was  such  a  wonder! 
And  I  said  '  Yes.'  He  said, '  May  I  come 
in? '  And  I  said,  *  Why,  of  course.'  So 
he  came  in,  and  stood  looking  at  me 
with  a  queer  little  smile. 

"  After  awhile  he  said,  *  Mark,  what 
would  you  do  if  I  went  away? '  I  didn't 
understand  at  first:  I  think  I  was  a  little 
sleepy.  So  I  just  echoed  '  Away? '  And 
Sire  said  very  quietly,  '  I  mean  to  Fe- 
licity, Mark.'  Then  I  knew!  I  said, 
'  Wait  a  minute — let  me  think.'  I 
thought  of  Felicity,  with  the  fine  gold 
harp  they'd  given  her,  who  couldn't  sing 
because  Sire  wasn't  there — Felicity, 
dumb  amid  all  the  choiring  cherubim 
and  seraphim — Felicity,  who  would  be 
frightened  in  Heaven  without  Sire.  So 

[25] 


Mark 

I  said,  '  I  think  you'd  better  go,  because 
Felicity  will  be  lonely.'  And  he  took 
a  long  breath  and  said,  '  Thank  you.' 
Then  he  went  to  the  door;  but  when  he 
had  his  hand  on  the  knob  he  turned  and 
came  back.  '  Are  you  sure  you  will  be 
all  right?'  he  asked.  I  said,  *  Rather! 
You  mustn't  worry  about  me,  you  know.' 
He  put  both  hands  on  my  shoulders  and 
looked  at  me — oh,  for  ages.  I  could  hear 
our  hearts  beating.  Then  he  said,  '  Fe- 
licity— she'll  be  so  proud  of  you  when 
I  tell  her!  Good-night,  my  Galahad! 
Sleep  sweet ! '  And — he  kissed  me.  He 
never  had  before.  He  went  out  and 
shut  the  door  quite  quietly,  and  then  I 
could  hear  the  outer  door  close,  and  his 
feet  going  down  the  path. 

'  Then  I  was  afraid — I  was  awfully 
afraid.  I  went  over  and  knelt  by  the 
window  and  watched  the  stars  go  out, 
one  by  one, — little  bright  candles, 
snuffed  out  by  Someone's  hand.  There 
were  only  three  left — only  two — the  last 
star  had  gone.  The  sky  was  that  queer 
[26] 


Mark 

green  that  it  gets  sometimes  in  the  early 
morning,  and  after  awhile  it  began  to 
get  a  little  saffron  round  the  edges;  and 
then,  quite  suddenly,  almost  as  though 
it  had  jumped  at  me,  the  sun  came  up. 
The  sun,  Priscilla!  I  laughed  out  loud 
for  sheer  relief.  '  Now  he'll  come  back,' 
I  thought.  '  It's  morning;  so  he'll  come 
back.  I'll  tell  him  that  I  can't  bear  it 
just  yet;  that  Felicity  won't  mind  wait- 
ing a  little;  that ' 

"  And  then  I  heard  a  shot,  far  off  in 
the  garden,  and  another  shot,  and  then 
it  was  all  quite  still  again,  and  I  knew 
that  he  had  found  Felicity.  A  clock 
struck  somewhere  five  times,  and  I  put 
on  my  clothes  and  went  down  into  the 
garden.  The  birds  were  beginning  to 
sing,  and  the  roses  were  all  covered  with 
dew.  They  were  red,  like  blood;  but 
they  smelled  so  sweet,  so  sweet " 

"Don't!"  cried  Priscilla,  and  she 
threw  out  her  hands  with  a  passionate 
little  gesture  of  protest.  '  To  die  with 
the  sun  on  the  roses — oh,  horrible!" 

[27] 


Mark 

'  What's  a  bullet  or  two  through  the 
heart,  if  it's  broken?"  said  Mark.  'I 
didn't  mind  the  red  roses:  it  was  the 

dead  ones '  He  broke  off  with  a 

little  shiver,  his  eyes  darkening.  Then, 
with  a  sudden  bound,  he  was  on  his  feet, 
more  radiant  and  more  carefree  than 
that  Hermes  whom  he  resembled. 
"Let's  laugh!"  he  cried  recklessly. 
"  Laugh,  Priscilla!  Ye  gods,  what  a 
day!  Did  I  frighten  you?  Don't  mind 
so  much — though  I  love  you  for  mind- 
ing." 

Priscilla  sprang  sharply  to  her  feet. 

"  I  know  that  you're  not  real,  you 
incredible  person,"  she  mocked  serenely, 
the  frightened  child  quite  gone,  and  a 
very  well  poised  and  slightly  sardonic 
young  woman  in  her  place.  "  But  I 
can't  have  even  a  phantom  of  thin  air 
informing  me  that  he  loves  me,  in  that 
casual  way.  Thank  you,  Mr. — Spencer, 
wasn't  it? — for  a  highly  diverting  dream. 
Aren't  you  going  to  dissolve? " 

"  Great  Heavens!  "  cried  the  phantom. 
[28] 


Mark 

'  There's  Cynthia !  I  utterly  forgot  her. 
I  must  run.  When  shall  I  see  you  again, 
Priscilla?  Quick!" 

"  I'm  going  to  Lady  Mordaunt's  mu- 
sicale  to-morrow  night,"  said  Priscilla 
mechanically,  and  could  have  bitten  out 
her  tongue. 

"I'll  be  there!"  cried  Mark  exult- 
antly. "  I'll  ask  myself.  To-morrow — 
it's  a  century!  I  shall  miss  you  horri- 
bly." He  bent  suddenly  over  the  small 
hands;  then,  before  she  could  catch  her 
breath,  he  was  off,  clearing  the  lawn 
with  great,  easy  strides.  Priscilla  closed 
her  eyes,  and  then  opened  them  again, 
cautiously.  He  was  still  there,  swinging 
along  beside  Cousin  Cynthia,  a  brown- 
haired  girl  in  blue  muslin. 

"  He  isn't  real,"  she  asserted  stub- 
bornly. "  In  a  minute  I'll  wake  up.  He 
couldn't  be  real!"  But  she  cast-  a 
reminiscent  glance  at  the  slim  little 
hands,  only  to  look  away  again,  quickly. 


[29] 


Ill 

ENTER  CAESAR 


"Mm  MORRIS  —  Miss  Hampden  —  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Gordon!"  announced  the  gor- 
geous individual  in  scarlet  and  gold  in 
stentorian  tones. 

"How  charmingly  quaint!"  mur- 
mured Lady  Mor  daunt.  "  Dear  Mrs. 
Morris,  you  must  let  us  always  keep 
your  little  daughter:  we  should  miss  her 
pretty  frocks  and  her  prettier  manners 
too  badly.  Arthur,  you  wretch,  why 
didn't  you  come  to  dinner?  I  never  for- 
give anyone  who  refuses  to  fill  in— 
never!  Isabel,  for  the  love  of  Heaven, 
take  off  those  earrings!  You  are  too 
hideous  in  them  —  positively  too  hideous! 
I  can't  think  what  Arthur's  about,  let- 
ting you  disfigure  yourself  in  that  man- 
ner. You're  plain  enough  already,  good- 
ness knows!  " 

The  graceful,  wide-eyed  young  woman 
in  gray   and   scarlet   simply   shook   the 
[30] 


Mark 

offending  articles  at  her,  with  a  derisive 
little  laugh.  "  Fancy  Arthur's  caring!  " 
she  said  in  her  soft,  pretty  voice.  '  You 
can't  be  at  all  chic  nowadays  without  be- 
ing hideous,  anyway,  Cousin  Gertrude. 
For  once  Fashion  favors  me ! " 

"  Go  away,"  commanded  Lady  Mor- 
daunt  shrilly.  "  Go  away  at  once!  You 
always  irritate  me,  and  you  know  it!  I 
can't  abide  pertness !  " 

"Mrs.  Platt-Fortescue— Miss  Platt- 
Fortescue — Miss  Alicia  Platt-Fortescue 
—Captain  Denby! "  intoned  the  scar- 
let and  gold  one. 

Priscilla  watched  them  from  her  van- 
tage ground  with  great,  incurious  eyes. 
Mrs.  Platt-Fortescue  seemed  bursting 
with  a  maternal  pride  that  her  offspring 
did  not  justify,  and  Captain  Denby — 
Priscilla's  lips  curved  in  the  most  charm- 
ing of  smiles.  Captain  Denby  looked 
delightfully  imbecile  and  proud  of  it. 
She  sank  back  in  her  chair  with  a  tiny 
sigh  of  satisfaction.  She  was  much 
pleased  with  herself  to-night.  The  short- 

[31] 


Mark 

waisted,  full  gauze  frock,  guiltless  of 
any  trimming  save  the  knot  of  velvety 
camellias,  the  tiny  white  satin  sandals, 
the  camellia  tucked  demurely  over  one 
ear  in  the  glossy  braids, — all  became  her 
admirably.  She  clasped  her  two  ring- 
less  and  gloveless  small  hands  over  the 
enormous  bunch  of  camellias  in  her  lap, 
and  smiled  again.  She  was  looking 
incredibly  young,  incredibly  demure,  in- 
credibly unsophisticated,  and  she  was 
feeling  incredibly  wicked. 

'  Why  are  you  smiling  like  that,  Pris- 
cilla? "  demanded  Mrs.  Morris  sharply. 

"  I  was  smiling  because  I  thought  I 
looked  so  pretty,"  explained  Priscilla 
candidly.  It  was  rather  fun  telling  the 
truth  when  you  once  got  started. 

Mrs.  Morris  stared  at  her  in  irritated 
amazement.  '  Priscilla,  you  are  simply 
impossible!  How  any  well  brought  up 
young  girl  can  think  such  things,  much 
less  say  them,  is  absolutely  beyond  me ! " 

"It  is  rather  absurd  of  me,  isn't  it?" 
acquiesced  Priscilla  cheerfully.  "  Moth- 
[32] 


Mark 

er,  aren't  you  glad  that  I  don't  look  like 
Miss  Alicia  Platt-Fortescue, — the  one 
in  magenta  satin  and  forget-me-nots, 
with  auburn  hair?  Aren't  you?" 

"  I  am  happy  to  say  that,  with  me 
for  your  mother,  it  would  be  impossible 
for  you  to  resemble  that  unfortunate 
young  person." 

'  You  never  can  tell.  She  doesn't 
look  a  bit  like  that  fat  little  Mrs.  Platt- 
Fortescue,  not  a  bit  more  than  I  look 
like  you." 

Mrs.  Morris  searched  her  daughter's 
upturned  countenance  for  any  sign  of 
malice;  but  not  a  ripple  agitated  that 
blandly  innocent  surface.  She  rose 
majestically  to  her  feet. 

"  I  see  Lady  Duffield  beckoning  to 
me,"  she  said.  "  I  promised  to  give 
her  the  schedule  that  we  laid  out  for 
our  trip  through  the  Riviera  last  win- 
ter. She  desires  to  repeat  it.  If  Lord 
Harrowfield  speaks  to  you,  have  the 
goodness  to  be  more  gracious  to  him 
than  you  were  Monday  night!  I  do  not 

[33] 


Mark 

think  that  marked  cordiality  toward  any 
of  the  other  young  men  present  is  neces- 
sary or  desirable.  Are  you  listening  to 
me,  Priscilla?" 

"  Yes,  Mother." 

"  I  will  come  back  to  you  when  the 
music  starts.  Remember  what  I  have 
said." 

'  Yes,  Mother."  She  remained  re- 
spectfully standing,  a  demure  little  white 
statue,  until  the  portly  figure  of  Mrs. 
Morris  had  wended  its  stately  way 
through  the  seats  and  halfway  across 
the  crowded  room.  Then  she  sank  back 
into  her  chair,  the  valiant  mouth  droop- 
ing ingloriously  at  the  corners. 

"  Ouf ! "  she  sighed  impatiently,  with 
a  nervous  little  twist  of  her  shoulders. 
She  surveyed  the  gathering  sea  of  faces 
with  the  same  uncompromising  droop. 

No  burnished  head  shone  high  above 
the  others — that  radiant  comrade  of  yes- 
terday, then,  had  been  as  mythical  as  his 
Greek  ancestors!  There  remained  now 
only  to  forget  the  fantastic  episode  as 
[34] 


Mark 

rapidly  as  possible.  But  for  that  night 
she  would  play  his  game, — the  truth, 
nothing  but  the  truth,  the  whole — no, 
she  was  too  much  of  a  novice  to  attempt 
to  handle  the  whole  truth.  She  relin- 
quished it  with  a  regretful  sigh:  other- 
wise, she  considered  herself  an  excellent 
amateur.  Who  was  that  erect,  gray- 
haired  man  coming  across  the  room  with 
the  Duchess  of  Cleves?  What  an  un- 
usual looking  person,  with  his  worn,  dis- 
tinguished face  and  the  imperishable 
youth  laughing  gallantly  from  his  mag- 
nificent eyes!  Why,  they  were  coming 
toward  her! 

"  Little  Miss  Hampden,  my  wicked 
brother  wanted  to  be  presented  to  you. 
I  give  you  fair  warning,  he's  danger- 
ous." 

"  I  am  not  so  fortunate,"  said  the 
man,  bowing  low.  "  It  has  ever  been  a 
cherished  but  unrealized  ambition  of 
mine.  Alas!  a  lamb  is  warriorlike  be- 
side me." 

Priscilla    smiled    prettily.     '  We    are 


Mark 

both  unlucky,  then,"  she  said ;  "  for  I 
was  feeling  peculiarly  adventurous  to- 
night. Couldn't  you  manage  to  conceal 
yourself  in  wolf's  clothing? " 

"  I  can  make  a  decided  effort,"  he 
assured  her.  "  Marian,  you  may  leave 
us.  If  Miss  Hampden  proves  too  merci- 
less, I  shall  flee  to  you  for  protec- 
tion." 

'  You  may  confide  him  to  me,"  re- 
turned Priscilla.  "  He  is  perfectly  safe 
in  my  hands,  your  Grace." 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  said  the  Duchess  of 
Cleves  with  emphasis,  "not  at  all  sure; 
but,  in  spite  of  my  uncertainty,  I  must 
leave  you.  Be  good  children." 

Her  brother  watched  her  retreating 
figure  with  a  slightly  sardonic  smile. 
"  Are  you  prepared  to  be  a  good  child, 
Miss  Hampden?" 

'  To  the  contrary!  "  laughed  Priscilla. 
"  I  am  prepared  to  be  a  totally  depraved 
enfant  terrible.  Are  you  prepared  to  be 
a  good  wolf? " 

"  Having  never  assumed  that  fascinat- 
[36] 


Mark 

ing  but  exacting  role,  Modesty  lays  her 
hand  upon  my  lips.  However,  I  can 
safely  promise  to  conceal  my  wool  for 
one  evening.  May  I  sit  down? " 

'  You  may.  Now  growl  your  best, 
please.  And — oh,  would  you  mind  tell- 
ing me  your  name,  so  that  we  can  start 
even?" 

He  leaned  forward,  a  sudden  glint  of 
amusement  in  his  eyes.  '  You  don't 
know,  really?  Oh,  no,  Modesty  herself 
withdraws  at  the  thought!  You  are  be- 
ing facetious." 

Priscilla  shook  her  sleek  little  head. 
'''  Indeed  I'm  not :  simply  truthful.  If 
I  were  at  all  discreet  or  well  mannered, 
I'd  smilingly  dissemble,  and,  after  five 
minutes  of  adroit  and  artful  angling, 
actually  know  who  you  were.  But  I'm 
playing  a  game  with  myself  to-night; 
so  I'll  admit  that  I  haven't  the  most  re- 
mote suspicion  as  to  your  identity.  It's 
an  important  one,  evidently.  I  should 
bow  my  head  in  shame." 
'  You  are  in  earnest? " 

[37] 


Mark 

*  Honest  Injun/  as  our  aristocracy 
have  it.  You've  worked  me  up  to  such 
a  feverish  state  of  excitement  now, 
though,  that  nothing  that  you  could  pos- 
sibly be  would  justify  it.  Unless— 
you're  not  Mephistopheles,  by  any 
chance? " 

"  I've  been  accused  of  it,"  admitted 
the  man,  with  a  slight  twist  of  his  mo- 
bile mouth.  "  But  I'm  no  such  great 
matter.  I'm  a  poor  scrivener,  Miss 
Hampden;  but  wicked  false  pride  for- 
bids me  to  continue.  It  would  be  a  mor- 
tal blow  if  you  had  not  read  my  scrib- 
blings." 

"  If  you're  not  Felicia  Hemans,  or 
Alexander  Pope,  I  probably  have.  Oth- 
erwise, I  prefer  to  join  the  ranks  and 
regard  you  as  Mephistopheles.  You 
aren't  Felicia  Hemans,  are  you? " 

The  man  laughed  outright.  ;'  Rest  in 
peace — I  am  not  that  immortal  lady. 
Just  to  punish  you,  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
who  I  am.  You  will  be  horribly  sorry 
that  you  have  treated  me  so  cavalierly. 
[38] 


Mark 

I  am  generally  known,  little  Miss  Hamp- 
den,  as  Geoffrey  Winter." 

Priscilla  contemplated  him  for  a  mo- 
ment, round-eyed.  Then,  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve it!"  she  said  flatly. 

"Oh,  come!  This  is  a  base  insult  to 
either  myself  or  my  works.  Why  don't 
you  believe  it? " 

"  Because  it  isn't  true,"  she  affirmed 
uncompromisingly.  '  You're  just  try- 
ing to  make  me  jump." 

'  You  are  misjudging  me  cruelly. 
But  I  am  sufficiently  flattered  by  your 
obvious  familiarity  with  my  works  to 
forgive  you.  Oh,  Harry !  " 

The  slim,  brown-haired  boy,  hurrying 
by  with  two  cups  of  punch  in  his  hands, 
whirled  about.  "Did  you  want  me?" 
he  asked,  and  there  was  a  certain  defer- 
ential eagerness  in  his  manner  that  made 
Priscilla  move  uneasily.  Cher  maitre 
sounded  in  every  note  of  his  charming, 
immature  voice. 

"  Miss  Hampden,  may  I  present  one 
of  my  young  friends,  Henry  Gilleon? 

[39] 


Mark 

Harry,  will  you  tell  Miss  Hampden  my 
name? " 

The  boy  stared  uncertainly,  a  bright 
flush  mounting  under  his  tan.  '  Your 
name?"  he  queried  helplessly. 

"  Exactly.     Have  you  forgotten  it  ? " 

"  It's — it's  Lord  Charteris,"  said  young 
Gilleon,  stammering  in  his  eagerness. 

Priscilla  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief. 

"So  it  is,"  agreed  the  older  man,  and 
at  the  amused  irony  in  his  tone  the  boy's 
flush  deepened.  "  And  now,  if  it  isn't 
asking  too  much,  Harry,  the  other  one?  " 

"  I'm  frightfully  stupid,"  said  Harry 
Gilleon  simply,  "  but  I  don't  under- 
stand. Of  course  it's  some  kind  of  joke 
— you  must  think  that  I'm  no  end  of  an 
idiot.  It's  Geoffrey  Winter,  of  course. 
Is  that  all,  Sir?" 

"  A  thousand  thanks :  quite  all.  We'll 
have  a  cigarette  later :  I  have  some  things 
to  talk  over  with  you.  Run  on  with 
your  commissions  now,  Lad." 

The  boy  smiled  hesitatingly  at  Pris- 
cilla, bowed  precipitately,  and  strode  off, 
[40] 


Mark 

perplexity  in  every  line  of  his  straight, 
slight  figure. 

"  Poor  Harry — that  was  rather  un- 
kind," smiled  Lord  Charteris.  '  Well, 
Miss  Hampden — sackcloth  and  ashes? 
I'm  looking  forward  to  your  penitence." 

"I'm  not  penitent:  I'm  stunned,"  re- 
plied Priscilla,  her  face  a  little  whiter 
than  usual. 

"My  behavior  has  been  atrocious," 
said  Charteris  remorsefully;  "but,  on 
my  honor,  if  I  had  the  most  remote  idea 
that  you  had  ever  really  heard  of  my 
unworthy  name,  a  deaf  mute  would  have 
been  loquacious  beside  me.  My  nom  de 
plume  is  not  a  byword  with  debutantes! 
My  demoniac  scheme  was  to  revel  in 
your  discomfiture  at  my  unenlightened 
revelation;  the  rest  of  my  mortifying  ex- 
hibit was  a  pure  tribute  to  your  sup- 
posed histrionic  powers.  So  you  really 
had  heard  of  Geoffrey  Winter!  Ah, 
well,  I  am  deservedly  punished.  I 
thought  that  you  were  doing  what  is 
vividly  termed  'throwing  a  bluff." 


Mark 

Priscilla  raised  her  head,  shaken  but 
undaunted,  a  gleam  of  malice  in  her 
blue-green  eyes.  'It  is  painful  for  me 
to  confess  it,  Lord  Charteris,  but  if  you 
are  Geoffrey  Winter  you  are  unde- 
niably my  affinity.  I  fell  irretrievably 
in  love  with  him  at  the  mature  age  of 
ten." 

"  Fortune  favors  me,"  murmured  Lord 
Charteris,  and  there  was  a  caressing  note 
in  his  supple  voice.  "  I  claim  his  laurels 
as  my  own.  What  weary  years  I  have 
spent  in  looking  for  you,  little  affinity, 
going  to  and  fro  on  the  face  of  the 
earth!" 

"  How  nicely  you  growl,"  said  Pris- 
cilla a  trifle  breathlessly.  She  felt  as 
might  that  unfortunate  individual  who 
had  chained  the  whirlwind.  A  chained 
whirlwind,  with  you  at  the  other  end  of 
the  chain,  is  a  force  to  be  reckoned  with. 
She  had  vague  memories  of  taking  her 
enormous  St.  Bernard  for  a  walk,  and 
coming  to  the  painful  realization  that  he 
was  taking  her  for  a  run. 
[42] 


Mark 

'  I'll  roar  you  as  gently  as  any  suck- 
ing dove,' '  quoted  the  man.  '  What 
kind  gods  introduced  you  to  Geoffrey 
Winter  at  ten,  little  affinity?  Is  that 
dainty  foot  of  yours  shod  in  a  blue 
stocking? " 

"  Don't  you  know  the  myth  concern- 
ing Boston?  "  parried  Priscilla.  "  All 
feet  go  shod  in  blue  there.  But  mine 
is  the  palest  of  blue  silks;  so  take 
heart." 

"  I  have  apparently  taken  it  these 
many  years  ago.  Will  you  take  mine? 
Fair  exchange! " 

"Robbery!"  laughed  Priscilla  breath- 
lessly. '  You  have  made  a  bad  bargain. 
Geoffrey  Winter  has  mine." 

"  Render  unto  Leonard  Charteris  the 
things  that  are  Geoffrey  Winter's ! "  said 
the  man.  "  I  claim  my  just  dues.  You 
have  sealed  your  own  warrant!  " 

'  The  coin  that  bears  the  head  of 
Leonard  Charteris  does  not  ring  as  that 
which  bears  the  head  of  Geoffrey  Win- 
ter," replied  Priscilla.  "  I  render  unto 

[43] 


Mark 

Caesar  the  things  that  are  Caesar's;  but— 
I  give  the  devil  his  due." 

"  Give  it  him,  them !  He  asks  no 
more,  poor  devil!" 

"  He  would  find  it  frugal  fare,"  said 
Priscilla.  She  was  mentally  out  of 
breath  and  badly  frightened;  but  she 
had  a  gallant  little  soul. 

"  Do  you  know  what  my  friends  call 
me?"  asked  that  compelling  voice. 
"  Shall  I  have  Harry  back  to  tell  you? " 

*  You  have  proved  accurate  in  your 
statements.  I'll  hear  you  again." 

'  They  call  me  Csesar.  Render  unto 
Csesar — sheer  folly,  isn't  it?" 

"  I  see,"  she  laughed  maliciously, 
"  Veni,  vidi,  vici! " 

"  Another  cruel  thrust — Brutus  him- 
self was  more  kindly.  Is  Caesar  too  am- 
bitious, little  affinity? " 

"  Csesar  is  mixing  his  metaphors.  It 
was  not  great  Julius'  head  that  graced 
the  coin." 

'  You  go  clothed  in  blue  from  head 
to  foot,"  smiled  the  man,  and,  while  the 
[44] 


Mark 

voice  caressed,  the  mouth  mocked,  and 
the  eyes  applauded,  "  and  I  swear  that 
it's  vastly  becoming." 

But  Priscilla's  eyes  were  far  away. 
She  brought  them  on  him  abruptly. 
"  Lord  Charteris,  do  you  ever  tell  the 
truth?" 

:<  I  am  obliged  to  admit  that  there 
have  been  times  when  I  have  done  so  by 
mistake.  But  I  have  repented  with  such 
vehemence  and  fervor  that  I  have  in- 
variably been  absolved." 

"No,"  said  Priscilla  critically,  "I 
shouldn't  describe  you  as  a  flagrantly 
truthful  person." 

'  You  are  generous.  I  find  telling 
the  truth  like  playing  with  edged  tools: 
it  is  twice  cursed;  it  curseth  him  who 
gives  and  him  who  takes." 

"  I  found  someone  yesterday  who  told 
me  the  truth,"  confided  Priscilla.  "  And 
it  was  rather — nice." 

"  The  truths  that  people  told  you 
would  always  be — nice,"  said  the  man. 

"  There's  a  lady  over  there  in  a  green 

[45] 


Mark 

frock.  She  looks  a  perfectly  irresistible 
cross  between  a  Raphael  saint  and  a  Ros- 
setti  sinner,  and  she's  smiling  at  you— 
she's  smiling  hard.  I  think,  if  you  went 
to  her,  Lord  Charteris,  you'd  find  balm 
in  Gilead  for  your  wounds." 

'You  are  sending  me  away?" 

"  The  music  is  going  to  begin,  and  my 
mother  is  coming  to  reduce  me  to  my 
proper  state  of  a  good  little  girl.  Moth- 
er, may  I  present  Lord  Charteris?  My 
mother,  Mrs.  Morris." 

Charteris  returned  Mrs.  Morris's  mur- 
mur of  incredulous  delight  by  a  polite 
bow,  and  turned  to  Priscilla.  '  I  am 
obedient;  but  I  am  not  beaten,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  vibrated.  "  Ceesar  would 
count  you  the  greatest  of  his  conquests." 

"Ave,  Ccesar! "  replied  Priscilla  softly, 
and  added  more  softly  still,  "  Atque 
Vale!"  But  he  was  gone. 

"Lord    Charteris!"    exclaimed    Mrs. 
Morris  with  a  majestic  flutter.     "  The 
Lord  Charteris!    My  dear,  how  on  earth 
did  you  happen  to  meet  him? " 
[46] 


Mark 

"  His  sister  presented  him,"  replied 
Priscilla  abstractedly. 

She  was  thinking  hard.  Had  Caesar 
been  playing  a  game?  Oh,  surely,  surely 
—absurd  to  think  anything  else!  Either 
an  assumed  one,  growling  nicely  to 
please  a  little  maid  in  search  of  adven- 
ture, or  else  an  old  one.  She  was  in- 
clined to  lean  toward  the  latter  theory. 
She  was  glad  that  the  Duchess  had 
warned  her,  however,  or  she  might  have 
been  a  little  nervous.  He  had  a  most 
extraordinary  way  of  expressing  himself. 
Every  remark  he  made  was  startlingly 
personal,  and  then,  all  the  time,  she  had 
had  a  horrid  feeling  that  she  was  talk- 
ing to  someone  in  a  book — or  in  a  dream. 
Their  whole  conversation  had  had  the 
same  stilted,  keen  fashion  that  she  had 
often  scoffed  at  between  covers,  and  it 
had  had,  too,  that  breathless  quality  that 
she  had  frequently  felt  in  a  dream, — an 
unreasoning  apprehension  of  impending 
evil.  He  should  not  force  her  into  it 
again — if  she  ever  saw  him  again!  She 

[47] 


Mark 

would  be  natural  as  well  as  truthful;  she 
would — 

"  Priscilla,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Morris's 
querulous  tones,  "  I  don't  believe  that 
you  have  heard  one  single  word  I've  been 
saying." 

"  I  haven't,"  admitted  Priscilla  frankly. 

"  Well ! "  remarked  Mrs.  Morris  with 
not  unpardonable  acerbity.  '  You  are 
the  most  ungrateful  child  that  a  good 
mother  ever  had!  I  asked  you  twice 
what  you  were  talking  to  Lord  Charteris 
about." 

"  Everything,"  replied  Priscilla  vague- 
ly. "  History,  theology,  ethics—  '  her 
lips  twitched  mischievously. 

"Priscilla  Hampden!  And  after  all 
the  care  that  I  have  spent  on  you!  Any- 
thing more  unprofitable  and  less  lady- 
like I  cannot  well  imagine.  I— 

Thank  heavens,  there  was  the  music! 
A  few  warning  chords  on  the  piano,  and 
the  cruel  buzz  ceased — all  the  harshness 
of  speech  ceased.  For  Isolde,  the  beau- 
tiful Isolde,  was  dying  of  love  in  that 
[48] 


Mark 

crowded  room.  How  her  voice  throbbed 
and  pulsed  and  soared,  that  great,  beat- 
ing voice  of  wine  and  fire  and  gold,  and 
how  it  grew  suddenly  hushed  and  mys- 
terious, clad  in  the  beauties  of  snow  and 
running  water  and  silver.  On  and  on 
— Priscilla  felt  that  if  it  continued  her 
heart  would  break,  and  that  if  it  ceased 
it  would  surely  break.  Her  eyes  were 
closed,  and  her  lips  were  parted  a  little. 
Some  of  the  people  sitting  about  her 
smiled  half  tenderly,  half  ironically,  she 
looked  so  unspeakably  young  and  so  in- 
tense. Alas!  it  was  stopping — it  was 
stopping — it  had  stopped! 

Priscilla  sat  quite  still,  eyes  closed, 
breath  suspended,  waiting  for  the  wave 
of  applause  to  break,  the  mighty  surge 
that  must  break  on  the  beach  of  that 
great  song.  It  came — a  pleasant,  mur- 
muring patter,  as  of  summer  rain!  Her 
eyes  flew  open  and  her  mouth  shut  in 
amazed  indignation.  How  dared  they — 
how  dared  they!  Why,  it  was  an  insult. 
Greet  it  thus!  It  was — 

[49] 


Mark 

"  I've  come,"  said  a  voice  from  behind 
her,  so  close  that  she  flung  startled  eyes 
over  her  shoulder.  There  he  stood,  smil- 
ing his  incredible  smile,  looking  more  in- 
credible than  ever — Gordon  Markham 
Spencer — Mark!  Her  playmate  had 
come  back! 


[50] 


There  he  stood!      Her  playmate  had  come  back. 


IV 
ENTER  THE  LADY  IN  GREEN 


"  I  GAVE  you  up  long  ago,"  said  Pris- 
cilla  happily  to  Mark.  '  Wasn't  asking 
yourself  sufficient?" 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  that.  Lady  Mor daunt 
was  perfectly  delighted,  and  said  that 
she  had  asked  me  already  with  Cynthia 
and  Uncle  Hal,  but  that  I  must  have 
forgotten.  And  I  said  that  I  had,  but 
that  I  shouldn't  again." 

"  I  want  you  to  know  my  mother," 
said  Priscilla  hurriedly.  "  Mother,  may 
I  present  Mr.  Spencer?  " 

Mark  flooded  Mrs.  Morris's  petri- 
fied figure  with  his  radiant  smile. 
"  Oh,  I  hope  that  you  will  like  me! 
Of  course  I  shall  be  awfully  fond  of 
you,  because  you  are  Priscilla's  moth- 
er. Don't  you  think,  Mrs.  Hamp- 
den- 

"  Mrs.  Morris,"  replied  that  lady 
icily. 

[51] 


Mark 

"But   I   thought   that   Priscilla- 
began  Mark  in  friendly  perplexity. 

"  My  daughter  bears  her  father's 
name." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mark,  with  wistful  sym- 
pathy, "has  he — gone  away?" 

"  Sir! "  quivered  Mrs.  Morris,  out- 
raged dignity  in  every  line.  "Mr. 
Hampden,  with  all  his  failings,  was  a 
gentleman.  He  knew  his  place." 

"  I  meant,  is  he  dead? "  explained 
Mark  gently. 

"  He  is  no  more,"  replied  Mrs.  Mor- 
ris, and  closed  her  mouth  with  an  audible 
click. 

"  I  am  so  sorry!  Though,  of  course," 
he  added,  consolingly,  "you  couldn't 
have  cared  very  much,  or  you  wouldn't 
have  married  again.  I  do  think  that 
that  is  the  most  extraordinary  idea,  mar- 
rying again.  Do  tell  me— 

But  Priscilla  had  found  her  voice. 
"  Do  tell  me,"  she  begged  feverishly, 
"  what  made  you  so  late  this  evening." 

"Well,   I  went  to  sleep,"  explained 
[52] 


Mark 

Mark  obediently.  "  After  dinner  I  went 
upstairs,  and  Uncle  Hal  had  given  me  a 
book  of  poems  to  read.  They  were  called 
*  Gems  from  Wordsworth  ' — and  I  went 
to  sleep  in  the  middle  of  one  about  Peter 
Bell.  They  were  the  most  peculiar 
poems.  I  suppose  he  must  have  been 
very,  very  young.  I  don't  think  that  I 
ever  read  such  peculiar  poems.  Have 
you  ever  heard  of  them?  " 

Priscilla  nodded  weakly. 

"Have  you?"  pursued  the  hapless 
Mark. 

Mrs.  Morris  glared.  "  If  England 
contained  more  such  refined  and  sublime 
geniuses  as  the  great  Wordsworth,  it 
would  be  a  happier  and  safer  spot." 

Mark  looked  a  trifle  crestfallen,  and 
then  brightened.  "  Oh,  well,  I  didn't 
get  very  far.  The  genius  probably  came 
later.  Besides,  I  wasn't  exactly  fair, 
because  I  kept  comparing  him  with 
Swinburne  all  the  time,  and,  of  course, 
that  made  him  seem  ridiculous.  But, 
then,  no  one  could  help  seeming  ridicu- 

[53] 


Mark 

lous  beside  Swinburne,  except  Shake- 
speare and  Browning,  could  they?  I 
mean  in  England." 

Mrs.  Morris  closed  her  eyes  and  shud- 
dered slightly.  "  Algernon  Swinburne 
is  a  blot  on  civilization,"  she  said  dis- 
tinctly. 

Mark  welcomed  this  uncharitable  ulti- 
matum with  affable  interest.  '*  I  sup- 
pose he  is,"  he  agreed  cheerfully;  "but, 
then,  I  don't  think  much  of  civilization. 
I'd  call  most  of  my  favorites  in  the  Old 
Testament — David,  for  instance — blots 
on  civilization,  wouldn't  you?" 

"  I  refuse  to  permit  such  blasphemy 
in  my  presence,"  exploded  the  sorely 
tried  Mrs.  Morris.  "Do  you  hear?  I 
refuse !  Priscilla— 

Priscilla  flew  to  the  rescue,  command- 
ing her  voice  by  a  heroic  effort.  "  Look, 
the  music  is  going  to  begin,"  she  said 
hastily  to  the  vile  blasphemer,  who  stood 
blankly  contemplating  his  outraged  vic- 
tim. "  Don't  you  think  that  you  had 
better  find  a  chair  somewhere  and  then 
[54] 


Mark 

come  back  and  take  me  down  to  supper? 
Don't  forget!" 

"  You  know  I  won't  forget,"  said 
Mark. 

The  music  had  really  started, — a  string 
quartet,  rendering  exquisitely  and  lov- 
ingly the  quaint  severity  of  Bach.  Sure- 
ly there  would  be  a  brief  respite,  during 
which  she  could  collect  her  scattered 
forces  and  pacify 

"  Priscilla,"  came  the  piercing,  sibilant 
voice  of  Mrs.  Morris,  music  or  no  music, 
"  who  was  that — creature?  " 

"  His  name  is  Gordon  Markham  Spen- 
cer," replied  Priscilla  cautiously,  and 
added  incautiously,  "  He's  a  great  friend 
of  mine." 

"  A  great — oh,  if  I  had  you  at  home! 
That  outrageous  young  infidel  a  friend 
of  yours!" 

"Do  whisper!"  entreated  Priscilla 
frantically.  "  His  uncle  is  a  Bishop, 
after  all." 

"A  Bishop!"  Mingled  waves  of  in- 
credulity and  relief  chased  themselves 

[55] 


Mark 

across  Mrs.  Morris's  statuesque  counte- 
nance. 

"And  he's  here  with  him  to-night!" 
concluded  Priscilla  dramatically,  and, 
she  trusted,  veraciously.  "  So  you  see 
it's  quite  all  right,  Mother  dear.  Now 
do  let's  wait  till  the  music  stops." 

The  rest  of  the  music  proved  merely 
a  background  for  the  bright  threads  of 
her  thoughts,  weaving  in  and  out,  a 
charming  and  intricate  design.  Caesar's 
voice — Mark's  smile — they  were  the  gold 
threads  in  the  pattern.  How  interesting 
life  was  suddenly  becoming!  She  smiled 
reminiscently, — the  uncontrollable,  spon- 
taneous smile  of  childhood,  which  some- 
times still  betrayed  her.  Oh,  she  did 
hope  that  the  impassioned  and  excited 
tenor  voice  that  had  followed  hard  on 
the  Bach  would  continue  indefinitely  to 
inform  the  world  that  "  it  was  all  in 
vain  to  implore  him."  She  was  so  com- 
fortable now,  and  explanations  would 
prove  undeniably  awkward! 

But  Nemesis  was  hot  on  her  heels. 
[56] 


Mark 

Mrs.  Morris's  voice  was  suddenly  sub- 
stituted for  that  of  the  tenor.  "  Now!  " 
she  said,  with  significant  brevity. 

"  His — his  uncle  is  a  Bishop,"  repeated 
Priscilla  guiltily. 

"  His  manner  hardly  impressed  me  as 
clerical,"  remarked  Mrs.  Morris  grimly. 
"  Is  he  preparing  for  the  ministry? " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Priscilla  unsteadily; 
though  she  felt  that  hysterics  were  the 
only  adequate  reply  to  such  a  question; 
"  at  least,  I  don't  think  so." 

'  Then  what  career  is  he  intending  to 
pursue? " 

Career?  Mark — career?  The  two 
poles  were  nearer  one  to  the  other  than 
those  two.  She  racked  her  brain  fran- 
tically. There  was  no  way  out  of  it. 
Indubitably  she  was  destined  to  tell  the 
truth  this  evening. 

"I  don't  think  that  he  has  decided 
on  one  yet.  You  see,  it  hasn't  been  long 
since  he  came  from  Australia." 

"  I  suspected  as  much,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Morris.  "Australia,  or  Africa,  or 

[57] 


Mark 

Greece,  or  some  other  wild,  heathen 
country! " 

Priscilla  veiled  the  unquenchable  mirth 
in  her  eyes.  "  He  isn't  exactly  wild," 
she  said  soothingly:  "only  a  little  un- 
sophisticated and — er — frank." 

*  You  must  be  mad,"  said  the  unfeel- 
ing lady  curtly.  "  Frank,  indeed!  May 
I  ask  how  long  you  have  known 
him? " 

Now  for  the  thunderbolt!  Priscilla 
mentally  closed  her  eyes  and  swallowed. 
"  Since  yesterday,"  she  replied  firmly. 

Mrs.  Morris  made  an  involuntary 
movement  of  recoil.  'Yesterday?"  she 
repeated  mechanically. 

"  Yesterday  afternoon,"  amplified 
Priscilla. 

"  And  how  did  you  meet  this — per- 
son?" 

"  I — just  met  him."  She  gave  a 
vague  wave  of  her  hand  that  was  meant 
to  be  airy,  but  failed  lamentably.  Even 
now  she  felt  the  same  sick  terror  that 
she  used  to  feel  as  a  small  child  of  her 
[68] 


Mark 

mother's  sheer  size.  The  colossal  bulk 
of  it  paralyzed  her. 

"  Do  not  be  impertinent.  Who  pre- 
sented him  to  you? " 

"  He  presented  himself,"  said  Pris- 
cilla  sweetly.  But  she  felt  cold.  The 
truth  was  an  excellent  servant,  but  a 
treacherous  mistress. 

"  Reflect  before  you  repeat  that.  This 
individual  was  not  introduced  to  you?  " 

Priscilla  laughed  helplessly  at  the  hor- 
rid incredulity  depicted  on  her  mother's 
countenance. 

"  I  cannot  believe  it,"  said  Mrs.  Mor- 
ris. "  I  simply  cannot!  A  daughter  of 
mine " 

"  The  music  is  all  over,"  Mark's  voice 
broke  in  happily.  "  I  asked  Lady  Mor- 
daunt,  and  she  said  so.  And  I  found  a 
partner  for  Cynthia.  And  I'm  hungry. 
So  do  let's  hurry,  Priscilla." 

Priscilla  rose,  clutching  at  her  chair. 
Never  in  her  life  had  she  defied  her 
mother;  but  if  defiance  were  necessary 
now  she  would  not  shirk.  "I'm  com- 

[59] 


Mark 

ing,"   she   said  obediently.     "Are — are 
you,  Mother?" 

"  But  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  inter- 
posed Mark  firmly;  though  he  smiled  at 
Mrs.  Morris.  "  I  don't  want  anyone 
else  to  hear.  Of  course,  I'd  love  to  get 
Mrs.  Morris  anything  that  she  wants  to 
eat.  What  would  you  like?" 

'  Water,"  murmured  Mrs.  Morris,  "  at 
once ! " 

"  Are  you  feeling  badly? "  inquired 
Mark  solicitously.  "  Oh,  I  am  sorry ! 
It's  over  there,  Priscilla." 

Priscilla  was  already  darting  toward 
the  open  door  and  freedom,  shaking  with 
pent-up  laughter. 

"What  a  shame!"  Mark  was  saying 
penitently.  "  And  do  you  know,  I 
thought  she  was  a  little  cross.  Priscilla! 
Are  you  crying?" 

"  No,"  replied  Priscilla  truthfully,  and 
she  dried  her  eyes.  "  I  don't  think  that 
you  are  real,  Mark." 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  take  some  water 
to  your  mother? "  demanded  Mark. 
[60] 


Mark 

"Water?"  echoed  Priscilla  vaguely. 
"  Oh,  I  forgot.  On  the  whole,  I  don't 
think  that  we  shall  take  it.  A  waiter 
will  be  safer." 

'What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  he 
demanded,  wide-eyed.  "  Safer?  You 
need  never  again  accuse  me  of  being 
queer,  Priscilla ! " 

Priscilla  considered  him  a  minute  in 
silence,  her  head  tilted  on  one  side. 
'  You  mustn't  think  me  queerer,  but  I'm 
going  to  ask  you  the  two  silliest  ques- 
tions in  the  world,"  she  informed  him, 
with  a  brave  smile.  "  And  I  hate  doing 
it  so  that  I  shall  probably  choke  to  death. 
Are — are  you  rich,  Mark? " 

"  I'm  awfully  rich,"  replied  Mark 
gravely.  *  You  see,  Felicity  had  heaps 
and  heaps  of  money,  and  Sire  wouldn't 
even  touch  it.  Do  you  want  some  of 
it?" 

Priscilla  shook  her  head,  with  a  small, 
twisted  smile.  "  No,  I  don't  want  it," 
she  said  gently.  '  You  see,  I  have  lots 
myself.  It's  the  next  one  that  is  really 

[61] 


Mark 

important."  She  took  a  long  breath. 
"Are  you  of  very  good  family, 
Mark?" 

"  I'm  being  stupid  again ;  but  I  told 
you  all  about  my  family,  didn't  I?  Have 
you  forgotten?  About  Uncle  Hal's  say- 
ing that  he  didn't  think  that  Felicity  was 
good?" 

Priscilla  wasn't  pale  any  longer — she 
glowed  as  rosy  red  as  any  country  lass. 
"  I  don't  mean  that,"  she  explained 
faintly,  "  I  mean — I  mean  are  you  re- 
lated to  any  Dukes  or  Duchesses  or 
Earls — or  anything?  Oh,  how  odious  it 
sounds ! " 

Mark  brightened.  "  Oh,  of  course," 
he  assured  her  joyously.  "  All  my  rela- 
tions are  like  that,  except  Uncle  Hal. 
I'm  pretty  nearly  a  Marquis  myself;  at 
least,  I  shall  be  when  Uncle  Rupert  dies, 
and  everyone  says  that  he  can't  live  long, 
poor  thing!  " 

"  Are  any  of  them  here  to-night — your 
relations? " 

"  There's  Aunt  Elizabeth,"  suggested 
[62] 


Mark 

Mark  hopefully.  "  She's  the  Countess 
of  Germaine.  Would  she  do?" 

"  She'll  do  beautifully,"  acquiesced 
Priscilla  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief.  "  Go 
and  get  Aunt  Elizabeth  and  a  glass  of 
water,  please,  and  take  them  to  Mother. 
I'll  wait  here.  Does  she  like  you?" 

"  Aunt  Elizabeth?  Rather!  She  says 
that  she's  simply  mad  about  me!"  He 
stated  it  with  such  contented  simplicity 
that  Priscilla  beamed  on  him. 

'  Then  she'll  go ;  and  do  ask  her  to 
say  all  kinds  of  nice  things  about  you. 
Mother  has  met  her  already,  you  know; 
so  it's  all  right.  I'll  wait  right  here. 
Hurry!" 

It  was  a  superfluous  injunction.  In 
two  minutes  the  Countess  of  Germaine 
was  captive,  and  Priscilla  watched  them 
vanish  together  through  the  open  door 
by  which  she  had  so  recently  and  incon- 
tinently fled.  In  two  minutes  more 
Mark  came  swinging  back  through  it 
alone. 

"  She's  perfectly  all  right,"  he  assured 

[63] 


Mark 

Priscilla.  "  She  was  looking  for  us 
everywhere,  and  I'm  afraid  that  she  was 
worried;  but  I  explained  to  her  that  I 
had  left  you  only  for  a  minute.  And 
Aunt  Elizabeth  said  some  corking  things 
about  me,  and  then  your  mother  smiled 
at  me  in  the  kindest  way  and  said,  *  Dear 
Mr.  Spencer,  I  am  sure  that  you  will 
take  good  care  of  my  little  girl.  Go 
back  to  her,  and  please  don't  worry  about 
me.  I  shall  be  quite  all  right.'  Isn't 
she  splendid?  And  I  thought  that  she 
was  cross." 

Priscilla  smiled  demurely.  "  Did  you? 
Now  let's  have  supper,  please.  Do  we 
have  to  go  downstairs?" 

"  Let's  stay  here,"  proposed  Mark 
eagerly.  "  Everybody  is  simply  scream- 
ing downstairs,  and  I  hate  to  scream. 
I'll  get  two  plates  of  the  nicest  things 
to  eat,  and  something  cold  to  drink,  and 
we'll  pretend  that  we  are  shipwrecked 
on  a  desert  island." 

"  I  didn't  know  that  pate  de  foi  gras 
and  celery  salad  and  jellied  squabs  and 
[64] 


Mark 

iced  claret  cup  flourished  on  desert 
islands,"  remarked  Priscilla  tentatively. 

'  You're  showing  a  shocking  lack  of 
imagination,"  he  reproved  her.  "  But, 
if  you  insist,  we'll  be  wrecked  somewhere 
just  off  the  North  Pole  where  there's 
plenty  of  ice,  and  we'll  find  a  hole  where 
one  of  those  explorer  chaps  that  they  are 
always  talking  ahout  has  huried  any 
amount  of  delicious  and  nourishing  food 
to  eat  on  the  way  back.  And  we'll  eat 
it  all  up!" 

"  All?  "  demurred  Priscilla.  "  I  think 
that  would  be  greedy.  Besides,  it's  steal- 
ing." 

"  Then  we'll  eat  the  delicious  half  and 
leave  them  the  nourishing,"  compromised 
Mark  regretfully  but  magnanimously. 
"  I  think  it's  perfectly  all  right  to  steal, 
anyway,  if  you  need  things  and  they 
won't  give  them  to  you.  You  will  play, 
though,  won't  you,  Priscilla?  " 

"  Of  course,  I'll  play.  Couldn't  you 
get  four  plates?  I'm  starving." 

"  I'll  get  four  apiece,"  said  Mark,  "  be- 

[65] 


Mark 

cause  I  am,  too.  What  an  appetite  this 
clear,  sharp  air  does  give  one! " 

Priscilla  shivered  appreciatively  in  the 
warm,  perfumed  room — and  then  they 
laughed  together,  irresponsible  and  joy- 
ous as  two  children. 

"  Make  yourself  useful  while  I'm 
gone,"  Mark  admonished  from  the  door- 
way. '  The  least  that  you  can  do  is  to 
find  a  convenient  cave,  so  that  we  can 
eat  properly  and  peacefully,  and  not  be 
discovered  by  the  maddened  explorers, 
when  they  find  that  they  haven't  any- 
thing but  nourishing  things  left  to  eat." 

Priscilla  waited  till  he  was  well  out 
of  sight,  and  fled  on  tiptoes  across  the 
room.  A  cave!  There  in  the  far  corner 
behind  the  brocade  sofa  was  a  shimmer 
of  green  palm  trees !  They  might  not  be 
strictly  appropriate  for  the  suburbs  of 
the  North  Pole,  but  they  offered  a  most 
delectable  hiding  place  where  it  would 
take  energetic  explorers  indeed  to  dis- 
cover them.  The  accumulated  dignity  of 
twenty  years  was  quite  forgotten:  she 
[66] 


Mark 

had  left  it  with  the  heavy  bunch  of  ca- 
mellias in  the  music  room,  and  now  she 
was  six  years  old  and  "  making  believe  " 
with  the  best  playmate  in  the  world.  A 
brief  and  undignified  scramble  landed 
her  flushed,  breathless,  and  triumphant 
in  the  little  semicircle  inclosed  by  the 
palm  trees,  and  their  stiff  green  leaves 
closed  behind  her  with  a  defiant  rattle. 

There  was  nothing  to  sit  on  but  the 
floor,  and  Priscilla  sat  on  it  with  ex- 
traordinary promptness,  and  patted  her 
hair  into  shape  with  a  gay  and  defiant 
little  laugh.  It  had  been  so  long — so 
wickedly  long — since  she  had  indulged 
in  the  supreme  luxury  of  being  silly, — 
not  since  her  father  had  died,  and  the 
small  little  girl  had  suddenly,  without  an 
inch  added  to  her  smallness,  become  a 
big  little  girl,  all  her  flying  hair  caught 
and  smoothly  braided  and  pinned  to  her 
rebellious  little  head,  all  her  beloved 
short  skirts  grown,  by  some  unfriendly 
miracle,  unconscionably  long,  fettering 
the  slim  swiftness  of  the  little  black  legs! 

[67] 


Mark 

Defiant  and  sore  at  heart,  she  had  put 
away  childish  things,  and  the  little  girl 
with  a  child's  heart  in  a  child's  body  had 
found  herself  on  a  sudden  a  "  young 
lady  " — and  a  "  young  lady  "  she  had 
remained  ever  since, — until  now,  when 
that  playmate  whom  she  had  dreamt  of 
but  never  found  had  come  striding  to  her 
across  the  centuries,  young  with  the  youth 
of  the  world,  and  demanded,  in  his  joy- 
ous voice,  that  she  play  with  him.  Oh, 
how  gladly,  how  gladly  she  would  play! 
All  her  little  cheated  dreams  and  starv- 
ing fancies  ran  on  eager  limping  feet  to 
meet  this  golden-headed  stranger,  and 
she  let  them  run.  The  glamour  of  child- 
hood was  on  her  again;  the  breathless 
delight  of  it  made  her  laugh  aloud. 

And  then  she  stifled  her  mirth  cau- 
tiously, because  she  could  hear  him  com- 
ing back.    There  were  steps  on  the  hard- 
wood floor  outside,  the  curtains  at  the 
door  were  pushed  carelessly  aside,  and— 
Ca3sar  and  the  lady   frocked  in  green 
came  in! 
[68] 


Mark 

Priscilla,  after  one  blank  stare, 
crouched  lower,  and  prayed  that  they 
might  return  whence  they  had  come. 
Gone  was  the  North  Pole,  gone  the 
lonely  cave,  gone  the  glamour  and  the 
beauty  and  the  joy, — all  dissolved  into 
thin  air  by  the  mockery  of  Cassar's  smile. 
There  remained  only  Miss  Priscilla 
Hampden,  seated,  by  some  inconceivable 
act  of  madness,  on  a  hard  floor  behind 
some  palm  trees,  with  a  rent  in  her 
white  gauze  dress  and  a  curious  blank- 
ness  in  her  heart.  If  only  they  would 
go  away!  But  they  were  not  going 
away. 

"  I  consider  it  heartless  of  you,"  ac- 
cused the  lady  in  the  green  dress  lightly, 
and  Priscilla  wondered  why  she  did  not 
like  her  voice.  It  was,  as  the  poet  sang, 
linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out;  but 
something  bit  and  stung  under  the  sweet- 
ness. Like  ether — that  was  it,  ether! 
"  Heartless  and  stupid,  too,  to  spend 
your  time  talking  to  a  little  white-faced 
chit  when  I  particularly  told  you  that 

[69] 


Mark 

I  had  something  to  say  to  you.  I  should 
be  angry,  Caesar:  I  spoil  you." 

*  You  flatter  me,"  said  the  man 
smoothly.  "  I  am  somewhat  conceited, 
Jacqueline;  but  not  sufficiently  so  to 
believe  that  my  defection  has  caused  you 
any  pain.  I  passed  young  Gilleon  in 
the  hall  just  now,  with  a  mixture  of  such 
guilty  joy  and  terrified  triumph  on  his 
face  that  I  immediately  added  him  to  the 
list  of  'among  those  injured.'  I  trust 
that  it  isn't  permanent." 

'  You  are  rather  horrid,"  said  Jacque- 
line negligently,  and  she  trailed  slowly 
across  the  room  toward  the  brocade 
sofa.  '  You  seem  to  think  that  I  am 
a  danger  and  a  menace,  my  good 
Caasar." 

"  May  I  smoke?  Thank  you.  You 
have  hit  it  with  your  customary  skill, 
Jack.  It  must  afford  you  a  melancholy 
consolation.  I  see  writ  in  flaming  letters 
on  your  brow,  '  All  hope  abandon,  ye 
who  enter  here.' ' 

"  How  poetic! "  she  murmured. 
[70] 


Mark 

"  Well,  you  are  safe.  You  have  never 
entered  to  try  your  fate." 

"  I  am  content  to  be  a  humble  dweller 
on  the  threshold.  And,  do  you  know, 
I  have  half  a  mind  to  constitute  myself 
a  life-saving  corps  for  your  mangled 
victims." 

Jacqueline  rose  with  a  movement  as 
swift  as  her  others  had  been  slow,  and 
the  swish  of  her  green  skirts  reminded 
Priscilla  of  a  sword  drawn  sharply  from 
its  scabbard.  "  Exactly  what  do  you 
mean?"  she  queried,  and  there  was  no 
change  in  the  level  sweetness  of  her 
voice. 

"  Exactly  what  I  say,"  replied  Char- 
teris,  and  his  voice  was  as  level  if  it  was 
not  so  sweet. 

They  stood  facing  each  other  in  silence 
for  a  moment,  and  Priscilla  contem- 
plated the  woman  with  a  mixture  of 
eagerness  and  perplexity.  Her  hasty 
description  of  her  as  a  cross  between  a 
Raphael  saint  and  a  Rossetti  sinner  was 
surprisingly  apt,  she  decided.  Raphael 

[71] 


Mark 

might  have  banded  her  hair  just  so  over 
her  little  ears;  but  it  was  not  of  Ra- 
phael's meek  brown:  it  rippled  "yellow 
like  ripe  corn."  Raphael  might  have 
drawn  that  broad  forehead  with  its  faint, 
clear  brows;  even  the  dove-gray  eyes 
might  have  been  his,  had  they  not  been 
possessed  by  a  terrible  restlessness,— 
straying,  probing,  seeking,  driven  hither 
and  thither  by  some  relentless  force,  at 
once  weary  and  alert,  never  still,  never 
at  peace.  Raphael  might  have  limned 
the  pure  oval  of  her  face  and  lovingly 
drawn  the  little,  pear-shaped  chin;  but 
Raphael  would  have  shuddered  and  re- 
coiled before  the  insolent  splendor  of  her 
mouth,  its  lurid  beauty  and  cruel  curves, 
— its  shameless,  sensuous  glory.  She 
was  very  tall  and  what  the  French  call 
fausse  maigre, — not  slender,  but  actually 
thin,  with  a  curious  roundness  of  throat 
and  breast  and  wrist.  And  in  some  ex- 
traordinary manner  she  looked  at  once 
tense  and  unstrung, — the  crowning  con- 
tradiction in  a  chain  of  contradictions. 
[72] 


Mark 

For  a  brief  moment  Priscilla  forgot  her 
impossible  position  in  her  absorbed  fas- 
cination ;  but  she  was  brought  relentlessly 
back  to  it  by  the  woman's  low  laugh. 

"How  absurd!"  she  was  saying. 
"Don't  be  so  pompous,  Leonard.  And 
if  I  may  venture  a  purely  disinterested 
piece  of  advice,  I  should  suggest  saving 
your  own  soul  before  you  start  out  on 
your  philanthropic  career  as  a  life-saving 
crew." 

'  Thank  you,"  rejoined  Lord  Charteris 
blandly.  '  You  are  more  than  kind ;  but 
I  fear  that  mine  is  irretrievably  lost.  Is 
that  all,  Jack?" 

"Dear  me,  no!"  She  motioned  to  a 
place  beside  her  on  the  brocade  sofa, 
and  Priscilla  stifled  a  moan  of  anguished 
exasperation.  "  Sit  down.  Who  was 
the  absurd  infant  that  you  were  talking 
to  this  evening? " 

"Thanks.  I  think  that  I'll  stand. 
The  absurd  infant,  as  you  so  felicitously 
term  her,  was  Miss  Hampden.  I  may 
add,  however,  that  she  belied  your  de- 

[73] 


Mark 

scription.  She  struck  me  as  surprisingly 
mature,  and  I —  '  he  stopped  short. 

There  was  a  clash  of  plates  and  a  tin- 
kle of  ice  from  the  other  side  of  the 
curtains,  and  then  Mark's  voice  was 
raised  in  lamentation. 

"  Oh,  bother!  I've  dropped  one,  and 
it  was  a  squashy  one,  too.  Did  you 
break  anything,  Parker? " 

"  No,  Sir.  It  was  the  claret  cup,  Sir. 
It  slipped,  Sir." 

"  Oh,  well,  it  can't  be  helped ;  and 
there's  a  good  deal  left,  anyway.  Wait, 
I'll  hold  open  the  curtains." 

Through  the  aperture  advanced,  or 
rather  staggered,  two  waiters,  one  tot- 
tering under  the  burden  of  things  to  eat, 
the  other  reeling  under  the  weight  of 
things  to  drink.  Mark  followed  them, 
laden  with  a  large  basket  of  fruit  in  one 
hand  and  an  overflowing  plate  of  small, 
sticky  cakes  in  the  other. 

"  I've  found  them!  "  he  announced  tri- 
umphantly. "Did  you  think  I  was 

never "  and  then  he  paused,  con- 

[74] 


Mark 

fronted  by  Lord  Charteris  and  the  lady 
in  green. 

"Oh!"  he  said  blankly.  "Isn't  she 
here?" 

"She?"  repeated  the  lady  in  green 
sweetly.  '  Who  is  she,  Mr.  Spen- 
cer?" 

"Priscilla  Hampden.  I  left  her 
here." 

"  She  must  have  gone — what  a  pity! 
Are  you  laying  in  provisions  for  a 
siege?" 

In  spite  of  his  obvious  bewilderment, 
Mark  laughed.  "  How  clever  you  are! 
No,  it  wasn't  exactly  a  siege — though  it 
might  have  been.  But  how  long  have 
you  been  here,  Miss  Campbell?  Are  you 
perfectly  sure  that  she  isn't  here?" 

"  I  am  perfectly,  perfectly  sure,  and 
I  have  been  here  for  about  ten  minutes. 
Miss  Hampden  seems  to  be  claiming 
more  than  her  fair  share  of  attention  this 
evening — eh,  Cassar?  Mr.  Spencer,  have 
you  met  Lord  Charteris? " 

"  I'm  not  sure,"  said  Mark,  with  his 

[75] 


Mark 

winning  smile.  "  I  meet  so  many  people. 
Have  I, 'Lord  Charteris?" 

"  I  think  not,"  Charteris  assured  him, 
smiling  back.  "  I  meet  a  fair  number 
of  them  myself;  but  I  rather  think  that 
I  should  remember  you.  Have  you  lost 
Miss  Hampden?" 

"  It  looks  as  though  I  had,"  admitted 
Mark,  and  added  eagerly,  "  Would  you 
mind  if  I  left  those  things  for  a  minute? 
You  wouldn't?  All  right,  Parker,  you 
can  put  them  down.  Thanks  a  lot.  You 
can,  too — but  I've  forgotten  your  name 
again." 

"  Huggles,  Sir,"  replied  the  imper- 
turbable individual  burdened  with  things 
to  eat. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Huggles.  What  a  jolly 
name!  I  hope  you  both  aren't  awfully 
tired.  They're  no  end  heavy.  Thanks 
a  lot.  Good-night." 

"Not  at  all,  Sir.  Thank  you,  Sir. 
Good-night,  Sir." 

"  I  like  them  a  lot,"  Mark  commented 
on  the  retreating  figures.  '  They're  so 
[76] 


Mark 

simple  and  straightforward  and  obliging, 
and  they  say  just  what  they  mean  with- 
out beating  around  the  bush.  Now  I'll 
go  and  look  for  Priscilla." 

"  She  has  probably  gone  home,"  said 
Jacqueline  Campbell. 

"  Oh,"  said  Mark  blankly,  and  the 
radiance  died  in  his  face.  "  Do  you 
think  so?"  He  stood  quite  still,  like  a 
bewildered  child  whose  proffered  gifts 
had  been  laughed  to  scorn,  and  Priscilla's 
heart  smote  her. 

No  foolish  pride  of  hers  should  stamp 
that  look  on  Mark's  face!  The  grieved, 
betrayed  child  was  standing  silent  with 
his  rejected  gifts  still  in  his  hands,  and 
her  whole  soul  flew  to  the  rescue.  She 
scrambled  recklessly  to  her  feet  and  took 
a  long  breath.  Then,  "  I'm  here,"  she 
announced  faintly. 

There  was  a  moment's  petrified  si- 
lence, and  then  Mark's  triumphant  voice 
rang  out: 

"It's  Priscilla!  I  knew  she  was 
here." 

[77] 


Mark 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Priscilla.  "  I'm 
coming  out." 

The  green  leaves  parted  with  a  horrid 
rattle,  there  was  the  sound  of  something 
rending,  and  out  she  came,  praying  fer- 
vently that  she  did  not  look  so  supremely 
miserable  as  she  felt.  The  ghastly  si- 
lence was  broken  by  Mark's  delighted 
laughter. 

"  I  say,  what  a  ripping  place ! 
How  on  earth  did  you  find  it, 
Priscilla?" 

"  I  just  saw  it,"  said  Priscilla. 

"  How  interesting!  "  murmured  Char- 
teris,  and  behind  the  mask  of  his  irony 
Priscilla  fancied  that  she  saw  penetrat- 
ing amazement  and  still  more  penetrat- 
ing disappointment.  "  Jacqueline,  do 
you  know  Miss  Hampden?  Miss  Camp- 
bell, Miss  Hampden.  Is  it  impertinent 
to  ask  what  you  were  doing  in  the  rip- 
ping place?" 

"  I  was  hiding,"  said  Miss  Hampden, 
and  felt  the  ruddy  flames  of  outraged 
embarrassment  engulf  her  from  head  to 
[78] 


Mark 

foot.  How  loathsome  the  truth  could 
sound!  But  how  could  she — how  could 
she  say  to  this  Caesar  with  the  mocking 
smile,  this  Jacqueline  with  the  cruel 
mouth,  that  she  had  heen  hiding  in  a 
cave  near  the  North  Pole  because  'Mark 
had  gone  to  dig  up  the  provisions  that 
some  intrepid  explorers  had  buried  for 
future  use  and  she  was  afraid  that  these 
same  intrepid  and  outraged  explorers 
might  find  her?  It  might  be  the  truth, 
but  right  there  she  drew  the  line.  Caesar 
could  think  what  he  pleased,  but  he 
should  never  know  how  silly  she  had 
been. 

"Hiding?"  repeated  Jacqueline  ami- 
ably, and  at  the  sheer  insolence  of  her 
mouth  Priscilla  went  white.  "  Dear  me, 
how  quaint ! " 

"  We  were  playing  a  game,"  explained 
Mark  eagerly.  '  We  were  trying  to  get 
away  from- " 

"Mark,"  Priscilla  cut  in  ruthlessly, 
"  I  am  a  little  tired.  Will  you  take  me 
back  to  Mother?" 

[79] 


Mark 

"  Are  you  going? "  exclaimed  Mark 
incredulously. 

"  I'm  not  very  hungry,"  said  Priscilla. 
"  But  if  you'll  come  to  tea  to-morrow  at 
four,  I'll  play.  Good-night,  Lord  Char- 
teris." 

"  Good-night,"  repeated  Charteris 
slowly. 

"  I  don't  want  him  for  tea,"  Priscilla 
told  herself  passionately.  "  I  won't  have 
him!"  Aloud  she  said,  "You,  too,  if 
you  would  care  to." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Charteris,  "I 
should." 

"  Of  course,  I  should  be  glad  to  see 
you  too,  Miss  Campbell,"  said  Priscilla 
desperately. 

"  And  I  should  be  glad  to  come,"  re- 
plied Jacqueline  Campbell.  '  You  are 
generous,  Miss  Hampden.  Good-night." 

"  At  five,  then,"  Priscilla  said  firmly 
and  distinctly. 

Lord    Charteris    raised   his   eyebrows. 
"Five?     I  am  afraid  that  I  can't  come 
after  four.    Will  that  be  too  early? " 
[80] 


Mark 

"  No,"  replied  Priscilla  mendaciously, 
and  despised  herself  for  a  coward.  "  It 
will  be  very  nice.  After  all,  Mark,  I 
think  that  I  had  rather  go  alone.  Please 
don't  come."  She  could  feel  his  hurt 
eyes  on  her  as  she  went  toward  the  door, 
and  she  turned  toward  him,  relenting. 

"  Come  at  three,"  she  said  in  a  swift 
undertone,  and  Mark  laughed  his  relief. 

"Rather!"  he  cried  joyously.  "I 
wanted  to  talk  to  you  alone  awfully. 
What  a  dear  you  are! " 

And  Priscilla  fled  before  the  set  mock- 
ery of  Caesar's  face. 


[81] 


V 
THE  PLOT  UNFOLDS 


THE  doorbell!  Priscilla  sank  back  in 
the  great  armchair  with  a  little  sigh  of 
content.  Mark  had  not  gone  to  sleep 
this  time  apparently:  the  clock  had  bare- 
ly finished  striking  three,  and  she  could 
hear  his  feet  on  the  stairs.  It  was 
absurd  that  she  should  be  so  glad  to  see 
him  after  so  brief  a  space;  but  the  ab- 
surdity was  a  fact.  She  literally  missed 
this  boy  whom  she  had  met  for  the  first 
time  two  days  before — she  literally 
longed  to  see  him.  He  was  fresh  air 
and  clean  water  to  her  parched  little 
soul.  It  was  as  though  some  wild  flower 
had  been  planted,  at  a  millionaire's  ca- 
price, in  the  unsought  shelter  of  a  green- 
house, and,  swaying  in  the  tepid  air  of 
a  conservatory,  had  forgotten  its  heritage 
of  all  outdoors;  and  then,  one  day,  some 
careless  hand  had  broken  one  of  the 
dusty  panes,  and  in  through  the  little 
[82] 


Mark 

opening  had  poured  all  the  wealth  of 
blue  sky  and  golden  sun  and  madcap 
breezes  and  the  smell  of  the  sturdy, 
green,  growing  things — in  through  the 
broken  pane  had  poured  all  its  lost  heri- 
tage! Small  wonder  that  the  little 
flower  strained  eagerly  toward  the  open- 
ing; small  wonder  that  she  strained, 
too! 

There  was  a  hand  at  the  door.  It 
opened,  and  through  the  opening  strode 
Mark,  with  all  the  lost  heritage  in  his 
hands,  and  all  the  joy  of  the  world  at 
his  heels.  And  Priscilla  forgot  dignity 
and  decorum  and  maidenly  reticence — 
forgot  everything  in  the  world  save  that 
he  was  her  playmate  and  that  she  was 
glad,  glad,  glad  to  see  him — and  flew 
across  the  long  room  on  wings  to  meet 
those  outstretched  hands. 

"  I've  been  sitting  on  your  front  door- 
step for  fifteen  minutes,"  announced 
Mark.  "  .You  can't  think  how  everybody 
stared!" 

"Oh,  can't  I?"  jeered  Priscilla  hap- 

[83] 


Mark 

pily.  "  May  I  ask  why  you  took  up 
your  abode  on  my  front  doorstep  for  fif- 
teen minutes?  " 

"  Because  you  didn't  ask  me  till  three, 
and  I  didn't  want  to  lose  a  second.  It 
wasn't  half  bad,  anyway.  It's  a  glorious 
day,  and  the  j  oiliest  little  yellow  kitten 
came  and  played  with  me." 

"  You  must  have  made  a  charming 
rural  scene!"  laughed  Priscilla.  'But 
I  am  glad  you  aren't  late.  Sit  down, 
and  let's  begin  right  away." 

"  Begin  what? "  inquired  Mark,  obe- 
diently sitting  down. 

'  Why,  playing,  of  course.     How  can 
you  be  so  stupid,  Mark? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mark.  "  That 
yellow  kitten  was  the  j  oiliest  little  beg- 
gar, Priscilla ! " 

"Was  he?"  said  Priscilla  unhelp- 
fully. 

"You'd  just  love  him!" 
'  Would  I? "  Priscilla  remarked  un- 
emotionally.    She  was  slightly  irritated 
that  Mark  should  be  so  obviously  more 
[84] 


Mark 

absorbed  in  a  mere  yellow  kitten  than 
in  her  intensely  interesting  self. 

"Don't  you  like  kittens?"  Mark  de- 
manded in  pained  astonishment. 

"  Sometimes,"  she  replied  coldly. 

Mark  smiled  at  her  ingratiatingly. 
"  Oh,  Priscilla,  wouldn't  you  like  one 
now?  It  wouldn't  take  me  two  minutes 
— and  it's  so  little  and  fat!  It  would 
make  the  most  gorgeous  polar  bear!" 

Priscilla  melted  before  that  smile. 
"  Of  course  I'd  love  it,"  she  said  gra- 
ciously. "  And  it  will  add  an  immense 
amount  of  local  color  as  a  polar  bear. 
Only  do  be  quick,  Mark ! " 

A  tornado  swept  across  the  room  and 
crashed  down  the  stairs.  There  was  a 
respite  of  as  much  as  thirty  seconds 
after  the  front  door  was  flung  open,  its 
hinges  squeaking  frantically,  then  there 
was  a  reverberating  bang,  and  the  tor- 
nado started  on  its  upward  rush.  It 
entered  the  still,  green  room  as  tempest- 
uously as  it  had  left  it,  and  deposited  a 
yellow  kitten  in  Priscilla's  lap.  She 

[85] 


Mark 

caught  up  the  palpitating,  furry  mite, 
its  small  ears  flattening  and  its  topaz 
eyes  glistening,  with  a  pitiful  little 
cry. 

"  Oh,  Mark,  what  a  darling!  It's 
such  a  little,  little  thing  1" 

"  I  love  little  things,"  said  Mark 
gravely,  and  he  stroked  the  kitten  with 
an  experimental  forefinger.  *  The  lit- 
tler they  are  the  better  I  love  them.  Is 
your  mother  better,  Priscilla?  " 

"  No,  she's  worse,"  laughed  Priscilla. 
'  Was  it  thinking  of  little  things  that 
reminded  you  of  her?  She's  suffocating 
upstairs  now,  poor  dear,  with  sheer  ex- 
citement." 

"  I'm  always  suffocating  with  excite- 
ment," confided  Mark.  "  Living  is  the 
most  exciting  thing  there  is.  Do  you 
mind  if  I  sit  on  the  floor?  All  these 
chairs  are  so  dreadfully  little." 

"  I  thought  that  you  loved  little 
things,"  mocked  Priscilla. 

'  That's  when  they're  alive,"  explained 
Mark  serenely,  from  the  floor;  "but  I 
[86] 


Mark 

love  big  things,  too, — the  sea,  and  the 
wind,  and  the  mountains " 

'  I  should  say  that  you  loved  every- 
thing!" she  laughed;  but  there  was  an 
ache  in  her  throat. 

"  I  should  say  that  I  did,  too,"  agreed 
Mark.  "  But,  do  you  know,  it's  nearly 
always  the  little  things  that  are  the  big- 
gest. Felicity  was  tiny, — she  was  tinier 
than  you  are, — but  Sire  said  that  one  of 
her  hands  held  all  the  joys  of  life,  and 
the  other  all  the  mysteries  of  death; 
that  her  two  lips  were  the  gates  to  Para- 
dise, and  that  her  two  eyes  were  Para- 
dise itself.  Which  do  you  think  is  big- 
ger, Priscilla,  the  Kensington  Museum 
or  a  baby?  The  dome  of  St.  Peter's  or  a 
star?" 

"  I  think — I  think  that  Felicity  must 
have  been  the  happiest  woman  in  the 
world.  Do  you  look  like  her,  Mark? " 

"  No,  I  don't  look  like  anyone.  Fe- 
licity said  that  I  just  looked  the  way 
she  wanted  me  to.  She  said  that  she 
dreamed  I'd  look  like  me — before  she 

[87] 


Mark 

ever  saw  me,  you  know.  Sometimes  I 
think  that's  all  I  am, — just  Felicity's 
dreams." 

Priscilla  held  the  kitten  very  tight, 
and  fought  desperately  against  the  sud- 
den, urgent  desire  to  cry  that  clutched  at 
her  throat  like  a  cruel  hand.  Her  play- 
mate was  sitting  at  her  feet,  not  a  hand's 
breadth  away,  and  yet  she  felt  more 
lonely  than  she  had  ever  felt  in  all  her 
lonely  little  life.  There  he  sat,  most 
friendly,  most  radiant,  most  dear;  yet 
it  was  as  though  that  clear  voice  came 
to  her  across  the  tumult  of  a  thousand 
years,  as  though  that  clear  face  smiled 
at  her  through  the  mists  of  a  thousand 
leagues.  The  room  was  very  still.  Pris- 
cilla held  her  breath,  and  stared  at  her 
playmate  with  great,  terrified,  impotent 
eyes.  Then  she  broke  the  terrible  silence 
into  a  million  bits  with  a  little,  shiver- 
ing laugh. 

"  How  clever  of  you  to  make  all  her 
dreams  come  true!  But  what  are  we 
going  to  play?  We  are  wasting  minutes 
[88] 


Mark 

and  minutes,  Mark!  If  we  aren't  care- 
ful it  will  be  hours  and  hours  and 
hours! " 

"  Give  me  my  kitten,  and  I'll  tell  you," 
demanded  Mark. 

"  It's  my  kitten,"  retorted  Priscilla, 
and  the  terror  was  gone  from  her  eyes. 
In  its  place  shone  the  unquestioning  ado- 
ration of  a  little  maid  for  her  hero,  and 
the  protective  adoration  of  a  mother  for 
her  child,  and  the  dear,  joyous  cama- 
raderie of  one  playmate  for  another,  and 
deep,  deep,  deep  in  their  farthest  depths 
stirred  that  which  was  a  welding  and  a 
blending  of  the  three — deep  in  their 
depths  stirred  love. 

"Put  it  on  the  floor,"  urged  Mark; 
"  then  we'll  see  whose  kitten  it  is.  Play 
fair,  Priscilla!  There!" 

The  yellow  morsel  shook  itself  and 
staggered  experimentally  out  into  the 
green  sea  of  carpet. 

'There!"  cried  Mark  triumphantly, 
his  face  flaming  with  excitement.  "  It's 
coming  to  me,  Priscilla!  Priscilla,  look! 

[89] 


Mark 

It  likes  me  best,  and  it's  coming  straight 
to  me!" 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it — the  kit- 
ten was  rapidly  advancing  on  wavering, 
unsteady  legs,  growing  more  confident 
at  every  step.  There  was  a  scurry  of 
flying  white,  and  Priscilla  caught  it  up 
with  a  little  crow  of  triumph. 

'There!"  she  announced  defiantly, 
holding  it  close  to  her  neck.  '  You  can't 
have  it.  It  wanted  to  come  to  me  all 
the  time." 

Mark  made  for  her  with  an  indignant 
shout  of  laughter,  and  from  the  door- 
way there  came  an  answering  ripple. 
Priscilla  lifted  startled  eyes  to  meet  the 
mocking  ones  of  Jacqueline  Campbell. 

"Bravo,  Miss  Hampden! "  she  ap- 
plauded softly.  "  I  hold  it  most  excel- 
lent strategy  uncompromisingly  to  seize 
what  will  not  come  to  you.  Oh,  pray 
don't  rise!  I  fear  that  I  am  a  trifle 
late." 

But    Priscilla    had    risen    and    stood 
motionless  in  the  center   of  the  room, 
[90] 


Mark 

the  kitten  still  in  her  hands, — a  stately 
enough  little  figure,  with  the  pearls 
gleaming  at  her  throat  and  wrath  in  her 
eyes.  The  first  time  that  she  had  been 
caught  had  been  bad  enough;  but  this 
second  was  intolerable!  And  unreason- 
ing hatred  for  the  tall  woman  standing 
in  the  doorway  suddenly  flooded  her, 
leaving  her  breathless  for  a  minute. 

"  No,  you  are  not  late,"  she  said 
quietly. 

"  Surely  I  heard  you  say  three? " 
murmured  Jacqueline,  and  her  gloved 
fingers  brushed  Priscilla's.  "  I  am 
frightfully  absentminded,  and  the  hours 
were  rather  confused;  but  I  could  have 
sworn  to  three.  Was  I  wrong? " 

"  I  said  five,"  Priscilla  replied  as 
quietly  as  before. 

"Ah,  how  stupid  of  me!  But  you 
will  have  to  forgive  me  again — you  are 
excellent  at  forgiving.  What  an  ado- 
rable small  kitten! " 

"  Isn't  it?  "  acquiesced  Mark  enthusi- 
astically, the  cloud  that  had  swept  over 

[91] 


Mark 

his  face  at  Jacqueline's  entry  quite  dis- 
pelled. She  had  made  a  mistake,  and 
she  was  sorry,  and  that  was  all  there 
was  about  that.  His  game  with  Pris- 
cilla  would  simply  have  to  be  put  off 
to  another  time.  "  Oh,  Miss  Campbell, 
how  wonderful  you  look  in  that  dress! 
Doesn't  she,  Priscilla?" 

"  It  is  a  charming  dress,"  said  Pris- 
cilla. 

Jacqueline  had  been  peeling  off  her 
long  suede  gloves,  and  stood  pulling 
them  through  her  fingers.  Her  eyes  con- 
sidered Priscilla  curiously  for  a  minute 
after  this  remark,  and  then  fluttered  to 
Mark. 

'  You  are  both  too  good,"  she  de- 
precated gracefully.  "My  poor  frock! 
It  is  getting  sadly  shabby." 

"  The  dress  is  beautiful ;  but  it  isn't 
that,"  he  explained  eagerly.  "  It's  you 
who  are  so  lovely  in  it.  You  look  just 
the  way  Undine  would  have  if  she  had 
got  her  clothes  in  Paris, — copied  after 
her  own  designs,  you  know,  of  a  green 
[92] 


Mark 

wave  trimmed  with  silver  spray.  And 
the  fluffy  white  feather  in  your  hat  is 
the  foam." 

"  Undine!"  repeated  Jacqueline  slow- 
ly. "  Do  you  think  that  I  look  like  Un- 
dine, Mr.  Spencer?" 

"  I  don't  think  that  you  look  quite 
quiet  enough  for  Undine,"  Mark  con- 
sidered thoughtfully.  '  You're  more  like 
the  Lorelei.  If  I  shut  my  eyes  I  could 
see  you  quite  clearly  sitting  on  a  rock 
and  singing  and  always  looking  for 
something.  I'm  awfully  sorry  for  the 
Lorelei." 

'  You  are  with  the  minority,"  said 
Jacqueline,  and  she  leaned  back  in  her 
chair,  veiling  the  bitterness  of  her  eyes 
with  broad,  white  lids.  '*  The  fisherman 
claims  most  of  the  sympathy." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  him,  too,"  Mark  ad- 
mitted; "but  I've  always  had  the  idea 
that  she  might  have  loved  him  and 
wanted  him  to  come  up  to  her,  you  know. 
It  must  have  been  ghastly  for  her  to 
have  to  watch  him  being  dashed  to  pieces 

[93] 


Mark 

on  the  rocks  below,  and  not  be  able  to 
help  him." 

'  You  are  right,"  nodded  Jacqueline. 
"  It  must  have  been  rather  ghastly,  es- 
pecially as  she  knew  that  it  was  all  her 
own  fault." 

"  I  have  been  brought  up  to  look  on 
the  yellow-haired  lady  with  a  suspicious 
eye,"  remarked  Priscilla.  "  I  thought 
that  she  dashed  a  good  many  fishermen 
to  bits,  singing  cheerfully  as  she  did  it. 
I  imagined  that  she  was  a  heartless  lit- 
tle jade,  without  the  indispensable  equip- 
ment of  a  soul." 

"That's  it!"  cried  Mark  triumph- 
antly. "  That's  what  she's  looking  for 
— a  soul!  That's  what  makes  her  eyes 
so  restless." 

"  And  mine,  Mr.  Spencer? "  laughed 
Jacqueline  Campbell  softly. 

"  I  don't — know.  But  of  course  I 
do:  everyone  has  a  soul." 

"  So  they  have.  So  had  the  Lorelei 
to  start  with,  I  fancy.  But  perhaps  she 
lost  it  in  the  green  sea,  or  traded  it  off 
[94] 


Mark 

for  the  golden  jewels.  On  the  whole, 
I'm  not  sure  that  she  didn't  make  a  good 
bargain.  What  do  you  think,  Miss 
Hampden? " 

Priscilla  lifted  wide  eyes  from  an 
earnest  scrutiny  of  the  kitten.  "  I  can 
imagine  times  when  souls  would  be  su- 
perfluous encumbrances,"  she  assented 
demurely,  "  and  the  jewels  were  prob- 
ably very  nice  and  shiny." 

"  And  if  she  dropped  them  into  the 
sea  too,  in  an  absentminded  moment," 
said  Jacqueline,  "  I  suppose  she  should 
thank  her  lucky  little  silver  stars  that 
she  had  had  them  to  play  with,  and  for- 
get all  about  that  immortal  trifle  called 
a  soul." 

Priscilla  deposited  a  light  kiss  on  top 
of  the  kitten's  fluffy  head.  "  Perhaps 
her  eyes  were  so  restless  because  she 
wanted  more  shining  jewelry,"  she  sug- 
gested sweetly.  "  I  don't  think  that  a 
soul  would  have  been  particularly  use- 
ful in  her  business." 

"  Oh,  come ! "  protested  Mark  indig- 

[95] 


Mark 

nantly.  "  Of  course  she  wanted  her 
soul  back.  Don't  you  think  so,  Miss 
Campbell?" 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  agreed 
Jacqueline;  "only  it  is  easier  to  get 
more  jewelry  than  more  souls;  so  she 
probably  made  the  best  of  it.  There's 
no  use  crying  over  lost  souls." 

"How  extremely  philosophic!"  re- 
marked Charteris  from  the  threshold. 
"  May  I  come  in?  The  butler  told  me 
to  come  up  here.  He  seemed  oppressed 
by  many  cares  and  laden  down  with  tea- 
things.  Am  I  supposed  to  shake  hands 
with  the  kitten,  Miss  Hampden? " 

"  I  shouldn't  advise  it,"  said  Priscilla 
gravely.  "  Kittens  have  claws,  you 
know — even  little  bits  of  kittens.  Put 
the  tea-things  here,  Lane,  and  bring  the 
hot  water  at  once.  Sugar,  Miss  Camp- 
bell?" 

'*  Thanks,   two   lumps,   and   as   much 
cream  as  you  can  spare.     I  am  un-diet- 
ing    nowadays.      Aren't    you    going    to 
speak  to  me,  Leonard? " 
[96] 


Mark 

"  My  dear  Jacqueline,  is  it  possible? 
I  could  not  believe  my  very  fortunate 
eyes!  I  understood  that  you  were  com- 
ing at  five,  and  I  was  desolated  at  the 
prospect  of  missing  you." 

"  It  was  so  stupid  of  me ! "  mur- 
mured Jacqueline,  selecting  a  fat  little 
cake  with  jam  inside  it  and  a  thin  little 
cake  with  frosting  on  top  of  it,  and  bal- 
ancing them  with  infinite  care  on  the 
edge  of  her  saucer.  "  I  got  all  mixed 
up  and  came  at  three.  Wasn't  it  atro- 
cious of  me?  " 

"  No  sugar  and  a  very  little  cream, 
thanks,"  Charteris  replied  to  Priscilla's 
inquiring  brows.  "So  your  phenomenal 
memory  had  played  you  false,  Jack! 
Well,  it  is  the  first  time  that  it  has 
tricked  you  in  my  remembrance — you 
may  lay  that  flattering  unction  to  your 
soul!" 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous,"  Jacqueline  ad- 
monished serenely.  "  My  phenomenal 
memory  is  a  figment  of  your  phenomenal 
brain.  I  have  just  been  explaining  my 

[97] 


Mark 

chronic  lack  of  it  to  Miss  Hampden. 
Under  severe  emotional  strain  I  have 
even  been  known,  like  Alice,  to  forget 
myself." 

"  How  you  have  tricked  us  all ! " 
said  Charteris  admiringly.  '  Upon 
my  word,  you  are  clever,  Jack!  Do 
you  know,  I  could  have  sworn  that 
you  never  forgot  anything  in  your 
life." 

'  You  are  mixing  me  up  with  that 
woman  with  the  firm  bang  and  the  reced- 
ing chin  who  took  you  in  to  dinner  last 
night.  She  vibrated  between  quoting 
you  socialistic  statistics  and  all  the  im- 
moral passages  from  your  books.  I 
heard  her." 

"So  did  I,"  said  Charteris.  "She 
was  quite  the  most  atrocious  creature 
with  which  I  ever  came  in  contact.  If 
there  is  one  thing  I  hate  more  than  a 
moralist  it's  a  socialist,  and  if  there's 
one  thing  that  I  hate  more  than  either, 
it's  a  suffragette.  But  to  encounter  a 
moral  socialistic  suffragette  is  a  fore- 
[98] 


Mark 

taste  of  hell  on   earth.     I  thirsted   for 
blood." 

"Poor  Caesar!"  condoled  Jacqueline 
soothingly.  "But  it  was  apparently  a 
choice  of  the  lesser  evil.  I  was  there 
too,  if  you  had  cared  to  talk  to  me." 

"  It  would  have  taken  a  considerably 
braver,  and,  I  may  add,  a  considerably 
more  foolhardy,  man  than  myself  to 
have  claimed  your  attention  last  night, 
Jacqueline." 

'  You  mean  Harry  Gilleon?  Oh,  I 
should  have  spared  you  a  few  words." 

"Is  he  that  awfully  nice  fellow  with 
the  happy  eyes?"  Mark  demanded  sud- 
denly from  the  shadows. 

"  He  is  that  awfully  nice  fellow," 
acquiesced  Charteris;  "quite  the  nicest 
fellow  I  know,  in  fact.  He  is  engaged 
to  my  little  niece  Nancy;  so  it's  small 
wonder  that  his  eyes  are  happy." 

"  I  did  like  him,"  said  Mark  em- 
phatically. "  I  don't  think  that  his  eyes 
looked  exactly  happy  last  night,  though; 
they  looked  awfully  excited." 

[99] 


Mark 

"  Perhaps  he  was  excited,"  said 
Jacqueline  sweetly.  "  He's  rather  an 
excitable  young  person." 

"  Nancy  is  excitable  too,"  Charteris 
smiled  reminiscently ;  "  but  she  balances 
it  by  being  the  most  adorable  young 
woman  that  I  know." 

"  How  rude  of  you !  "  rebuked  Jacque- 
line. "  However,  I'll  grant  you  that 
she  is  quite  indecently  pretty  and  that 
she  has  a  positive  vocation  for  being  nice. 
She  is  even  nice  to  me." 

"Is  she  so  pretty?"  asked  Priscilla. 

"  She's  a  red-headed  little  thing  with  a 
good  complexion,"  replied  Jacqueline 
accurately  but  deceptively.  "  Haven't 
you  ever  seen  her,  the  youngest  daugh- 
ter of  the  Duchess  of  Cleves? " 

"Oh,  I  know  who  you  mean!"  cried 
Mark.  "  She  has  reddy-gold  hair  that 
looks  like  a  wreath  of  flowers,  and  eyes 
like  brown  pansies,  and  a  mouth  like  a 
flower,  too.  Do  you  know,"  he  added 
reflectively,  "  that  every  time  I  look  at 
her  I  want  to  kiss  her.  I  never  felt 
[100] 


Mark 

that  way  about  anyone  before.     I  want 
to  kiss  her  awfully ! " 

He  said  it  with  such  obvious  sincerity 
that  he  was  greeted  by  a  burst  of  sym- 
pathetic laughter. 

"  It's  a  very  laudable  and  not  star- 
tlingly  original  desire,"  remarked  Char- 
teris  dryly.  "  But  I'll  stake  any  amount 
that  Harry  is  the  only  lucky  beggar 
who  has  ever  had  it  gratified.  Nancy's 
pride  would  make  Lucifer's  resemble  a 
poor  relation." 

"  Poor  child !  let's  hope  that  it  may 
never  have  a  fall,"  murmured  Jacqueline. 
"  May  I  have  some  more  tea,  Miss 
Hampden?  Do  you  know,  men  actually 
chant  her  praises  in  my  presence!  It's 
a  dangerous  game.  If  I  were  a  man, 
I  should  as  soon  think  of  brandishing  a 
lighted  torch  about  a  keg  of  gunpowder 
as  praising  one  attractive  woman  to  an- 
other; particularly  when  you  are  prais- 
ing a  pink-cheeked  debutante  to  a  woman 
who  is  trying  to  forget  that  there  are 
such  things." 

[101] 


Mark 

"  Don't  you  like  her? "  demanded 
Mark. 

"  Like  her? "  considered  Jacqueline, 
stirring  her  tea.  "  Now  that  you  speak 
of  it,  I  don't  believe  that  I  do  like  her. 
But  she  is  always  alarmingly  nice  to  me. 
I  wonder  why? " 

"  Most  people  are  afraid  of  you," 
said  Charteris.  '  Perhaps  she  thinks, 
my  dear  Jack,  that  there  is  very  little  to 
fear." 

"  Perhaps  —  she  does,"  acquiesced 
Jacqueline  slowly,  and  she  smiled 
vaguely. 

Charteris  stared  at  her  intently  for  a 
moment;  but  her  eyes  were  veiled  again 
— she  was  watching  the  light  play  in  an 
emerald  on  her  finger.  He  rose 
abruptly. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said.  '  It  has  been 
charming.  Jacqueline,  the  motor  is 
outside.  May  I  drop  you  some- 
where?" 

'  Thanks,  no,"  replied  Jacqueline. 
"  I'm  having  much  too  nice  a  time  to  go 
[102] 


Mark 

just  yet.  I'll  see  you  soon  again,  I 
suppose? " 

"  Surely.  Good  afternoon,  Spencer." 
He  held  Priscilla's  hand  for  a  fraction 
longer  than  necessary,  looking  at  her 
with  searching  eyes.  Then  he  smiled, 
almost  gayly.  "  How  old  are  you,  Miss 
Hampden? " 

Priscilla  smiled  Jback  at  him  bravely. 
"  Old  enough  to  know  better.  Do  you 
ever  play  games,  Lord  Charteris?" 

"  I  never  stop,"  he  said,  and  his  eye 
wandered  to  Jacqueline.  "  I  may  add 
that  I  am  rarely  beaten.  Here's  to  a 
speedy  meeting,  Mademoiselle  Methuse- 
lah!" 

"  May  Time  stride  by  in  seven-leagued 
boots !  "  laughed  Priscilla.  "  Good  af- 
ternoon, Lord  Charteris." 

"  Leonard  has  been  talking  in  a  most 
symbolic  manner,"  commented  Jacque- 
line, and  she  glanced  mockingly  toward 
the  closing  door;  "but  he  is  sacrificing 
some  of  his  inimitable  flippancy.  Did 
you  know  that  he  was  considered  quite 

[103] 


Mark 

the  most  depraved  and  delightful  indi- 
vidual in  London,  Miss  Hampden? " 

'What  an  enviable  reputation!"  re- 
joined Priscilla  lightly.  "  Unfortunate- 
ly, I  have  not  been  able  to  verify 
it.  I  know  him  only  through  his 
books." 

'  Then  you  are  more  to  be  pitied  than 
scorned.  Caesar's  books!  They  form 
a  protracted  series  of  youthful  indiscre- 
tions that  far  outweigh  his  more  ma- 
ture and  less  literary  ones.  In  fact, 
they  outweigh  almost  anything  I 
know." 

"Doesn't  he  ever  write  any  more?" 
asked  Priscilla. 

"If  he  does  he  manages  to  conceal  it 
very  skillfully.  I  heard  a  nice  little 
maiden  lady  ask  him  once  why  he  didn't, 
and  he  told  her  in  the  most  chivalrous 
manner  possible  that  he  didn't  believe 
in  profaning  the  altar  fire  with  defiled 
hands.  She  turned  light  green  with 
scandalized  emotion,  poor  thing." 

"The  altar  fire!"  repeated  Priscilla 
[104] 


Mark 

softly.  "  Then  he  wasn't  always  the 
most  depraved  and  delightful  person  in 
London? " 

"  Good  Heavens,  no!  He  was  always 
uncannily  brilliant;  but  he  used  to  be  the 
very  pink  of  propriety.  I  confess  that 
I  can't  imagine  it.  But  they  say  that 
he  used  to  go  about  like  Saint  George 
and  the  dragon  all  rolled  into  one,  belch- 
ing forth  the  fire  of  his  ideals  and  the 
smoke  of  his  convictions,  and  quenching 
them  both,  if  they  became  too  ardent, 
with  the  gentle  rain  of  mercy  and  the 
milk  of  human  kindness.  He  brought 
peace  in  one  hand  and  a  sword  in  the 
other — and  it  made  it  rather  exciting, 
because  you  never  could  be  quite  sure 
which  he  was  going  to  use.  There 
was  no  method  whatever  in  his  mad- 
ness." 

"And  then  what  happened?"  asked 
Priscilla. 

"  Oh,  then  his  brother  married  Leon- 
ard's fiancee,  under  Leonard's  very  nose, 
and  the  embryo  saint  became  an  accom- 

[105] 


Mark 

plished  sinner  in  an  amazingly  short 
space  of  time.  I  don't  believe  that  he 
has  ever  had  a  relapse." 

"  She  must  have  been  a  horrid  kind 
of  girl,"  commented  Mark  with  impar- 
tial disdain. 

"  So  she  must,"  agreed  Jacqueline. 
"  But  Csesar  has  been  taking  it  out  of 
the  rest  of  her  sex  ever  since.  He  must 
have  evened  up  their  little  score  some 
time  ago.  Mr.  Spencer,  would  you  con- 
sider it  very  brazen  and  heartless  of  me 
if  I  asked  you  to  take  me  home?  It  is 
beginning  to  get  dark,  and  I  have  no 
carriage." 

"  I'd  love  to  take  you,"  said  Mark, 
"  only  I  promised  Priscilla  that— 

"  Of  course  you  must  go,"  broke  in 
Priscilla.  "  I  have  been  longing  for  a 
nap  before  dinner,  and  now  I  shall  get 
it.  Good-night.  Can  you  see  your  way 
out?" 

"  Are  you  sure  you  don't  mind,  Pris- 
cilla?" asked  Mark  gently.  "I'd  much 
rather  stay  with  you;  but  I  remembered 
[106] 


Mark 

that  it  wouldn't  be  polite  to  say 
so.  Only,  if  you  mind  a  bit,  I'll 
stay." 

"  Don't  be  silly,"  retorted  Priscilla 
ruthlessly.  "  I  shouldn't  have  you  stay 
for  anything:  I'd  much  rather  that  you 
went.  I'm " 

"  Coming,  Mr.  Spencer? "  called 
Jacqueline  from  the  hall. 

"  Coming!  "  cried  Mark.  "  Oh,  Pris- 
cilla, you  are  such  a  comfort — you  al- 
ways understand  everything!  May  I 
come  again  soon?" 

Priscilla  laughed  up  at  him  helplessly. 
'  Yes,  come  very  soon,"  she  nodded. 
"  And  I'll  endeavor  to  provide  against 
such  distracting  influences  as  yellow  kit- 
tens and  green  Loreleis.  Good-night, 
Mark." 

"  I  don't  think  that  I'll  go,"  announced 
Mark  cheerfully.  "  I  think  I'd  rather 
stay." 

"Mr.  Spencer!"  came  the  clear  voice 
from  the  hall. 

Priscilla  gave  him  a  little  push. 

[107] 


Mark 

"  Run!  "  she  commanded  briefly.  "  Only 
— come  back  soon!  Good-night." 

She  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the 
darkening  room,  listening  to  his  feet  on 
the  stairs,  to  the  sudden  murmur  of 
voices  in  the  hall,  and  the  closing  of  the 
outer  door.  Then,  "  I  think  that  she  is 
rather  a  hateful  person,"  she  said  to  the 
kitten,  with  a  forlorn  little  laugh. 
"What  do  you  think?" 

The  kitten  remained  noncommittal 
and  Priscilla  climbed  up  on  the  window- 
seat  and  unfastened  the  casement  win- 
dow. The  gray  street  was  deserted  and 
very  still;  so  still  that  there  came  back 
to  her  straining  ears  a  distant  catch  of 
laughter.  Something  shook  her  at  the 
sound,  and  her  hands  flew  to  her  ears 
in  an  involuntary  effort  to  close  it  out. 
Then  she  drew  a  long,  careful  breath 
and  turned  slowly  back  from  the  open 
window  to  the  dim  room. 


[108] 


VI 
EXIT  A  MINOR  CHARACTER 


IT  was  a  tiny  room  in  a  tiny  apart- 
ment, and  yet  in  some  mysterious  man- 
ner it  gave  the  impression  of  indefinable 
space,  as  though  an  artist  had  painted 
it,  handling  lights  and  shades  in  a  mas- 
terly manner,  brushing  in  his  effects 
with  a  broad  yet  delicate  stroke.  The 
room  had  obviously  started  out  to  be 
Adams,  with  its  prim,  silken  hangings 
and  exquisite  satin  wood  furnishings;  but 
some  whimsical  hand  had  hung  a  Whis- 
tler nocturne  in  grays  and  greens  on  the 
paneled  wall  and  balanced  a  little  Tana- 
gra  figurine  in  one  corner  against  a 
faintly  tinted  waxen  bust  from  mediaeval 
Italy  in  another.  The  same  hand,  gifted 
with  that  diviner  harmony  that  welcomes 
contrasts  and  laughs  at  laws,  had  ar- 
ranged a  handful  of  wild  flowers  in  the 
bowl  of  an  old  Roman  lamp,  and  placed 
flank  to  flank  on  the  bare  round  table 

[109] 


Mark 

Sappho's  Odes  and  Saint  Francis' 
Fioretti. 

The  only  occupant  of  the  room  was 
young  Gilleon,  who  stood  frowning  down 
with  bright,  troubled  eyes  at  the  in- 
scrutable waxen  lady  from  the  Renais- 
sance. She  looked  so  meek  and  yet  so 
maddening — he  wondered  vaguely  what 
thoughts  were  weaving  beneath  the 
bright  jewel  on  her  forehead.  There 
was  a  faint  rustle  in  the  doorway,  and 
he  turned,  his  hands  working  nervously. 
Jacqueline  came  slowly  forward,  her 
blue-green  draperies  slipping  behind  her 
like  water. 

"Oh,  my  beautiful!"  cried  young 
Gilleon;  and  her  lips  curled. 

"  Careful,  Harry  1 "  she  cautioned 
mockingly. 

The  boy  came  a  step  nearer.  '  I've 
done  what  you  told  me  to,"  he  said. 
"  Please  be  good  to  me,  Jacqueline !  It 
was — horrible !  " 

"  Poor  little  boy,"  condoled  Jacque- 
line,— "  but  a  good  little  boy !  He  has 
[110] 


Mark 

learned  that  it  isn't  nice  to  make  love  to 
two  ladies  at  once." 

Harry  sat  down  on  the  little  stool  at 
her  feet,  staring  up  at  her  with  bewil- 
dered eyes.  "  I  wish  I  could  under- 
stand," he  said  slowly.  "  I'm  such  an 
awful  duffer,  you  know.  I  had  a  sort 
of  idea  that  you  couldn't  love  except  one 
person — that  you  lived  happily  ever  af- 
terward— when  you  came." 

"So  I'm  cast  for  the  role  of  serpent 
in  this  Eden,"  murmured  Jacqueline. 
'  You're  not  flattering,  Harry." 

"Oh,  please,  don't!"  he  protested 
miserably.  '  You  hurt  so  when  you  say 
things  like  that!  I'm  just  trying  to  un- 
derstand. If — if  I  found  someone  else, 
Nancy  will  too,  won't  she?  Won't  she, 
Jacqueline? " 

Jacqueline  stirred  a  little,  and  then 
she  smiled  again.  "  Chi  sa?  "  she  evaded 
lightly,  "  which  being  interpreted,  little 
Philistine,  means  '  Who  knows  ? '  There 
are  a  good  many  ugly  things  and  a 
good  many  pleasant  things  that  go  mas- 
till] 


Mark 

querading  about  this  weary  world  as 
love,  my  good  child:  she's  apt  to  fall  on 
one  of  them." 

"  But  the  real  love? "  pursued  Harry 
eagerly.  '  The  one  that  isn't  mas- 
querading? That's  what  I  want  to 
know,  Jacqueline.  How  do  you  know 
it?" 

"  The  real  love ! "  mused  Jacqueline. 
"  Little  sweet  Penelope  waiting  at  home 
while  the  sirens  sing!  Who  knows 
enough  to  clap  his  hands  over  his  ears 
and  close  out  the  song?  Who  knows 
which  is  the  more  real — Penelope's  weav- 
ing or  the  siren's  music?  It's  a  matter 
of  taste,  Master  Hal! " 

"Look  at  me!"  begged  Harry. 
"  Look  at  me,  my  beautiful !  When  you 
look  at  me  I  forget  Nan's  face  when  I 
told  her — I  forget  everything  except 
how  wonderful  you  are.  Oh,  Jacqueline, 
how  wonderful  you  are!  " 

Jacqueline  leaned  suddenly  forward, 
her  cold  face  flaming.  "  Am  I  so  won- 
derful," she  demanded  tensely,  "  so  won- 


Mark 

derful  that  no  one  could  help  lov- 
ing me,  more  wonderful  than  anyone 
else?" 

Young  Gilleon  lifted  dizzy  eyes  to 
hers.  "  I  can't  say  it,"  he  whispered 
breathlessly;  "but  you  know,  my  beau- 
tiful!" 

Jacqueline  gave  a  little  catch  of  exult- 
ant laughter.  "  Am  I  more  beautiful 
than  that  Hampden  child — the  little 
white-faced  thing  with  the  big  eyes? 
Tell  me,  Harry!" 

'  You  are  the  most  wonderful  thing 
in  the  world!"  cried  the  boy.  "And 
when  you  laugh  like  that  I  go  mad! 
Oh,  Jacqueline! " 

Jacqueline  brushed  his  thick  brown 
hair  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and 
laughed  again.  "  I'm  glad  of  that,"  she 
told  him.  '  What  a  nice  goose  you  are, 
Hariy!  Did  your  little  sweetheart  make 
a  scene?" 

"Nancy?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"  No.  She  didn't  say  anything ;  but  her 

face "  He  lifted  his  hand  to  his 

[113] 


Mark 

eyes.  "  I  thought  I  had  killed  her," 
he  said  simply. 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  no! "  laughed  Jacque- 
line. '  We  aren't  so  fragile  as  that,  we 
women.  But  our  pride  dies  hard  some- 
times— and  I  grant  you  that  it  doesn't 
look  pretty." 

"  I  thought  that  hell  was  too  good 
for  me,"  said  Harry  Gilleon,  and  his 
clear  young  voice  was  hard.  '  But  the 
awful  part  about  it  was  that  I  didn't 
care.  I  only  wanted  you,  Jacqueline— 
I  had  to  have  you! " 

"Did  you?"  queried  Jacqueline. 
"Poor  little  Harry!  You  may  kiss  my 
hand  if  you  want  to." 

He  buried  his  hot  face  for  a  minute  in 
the  hollow  of  her  cool,  slim  palms. 
"  Jacqueline,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
came  to  her  a  little  muffled,  as  though 
from  a  distance,  "  I  can  ask  you  better 
now  than  when  I'm  looking  at  you. 
I — I'm  awfully  afraid  of  you,  you 
know." 

'Yes?"  encouraged  Jacqueline. 
[114] 


Marry  you!"      She  exclaimed.      "You   must   he  dreaming!" 

l'a»«-  1  15 


Mark 

"  That  is  rather  sweet  of  you.  What 
are  you  going  to  ask  me,  Harry?  " 

'  When — when  are  you  going  to 
marry  me,  my  beautiful?  I  can't  wait 
long." 

Jacqueline  drew  her  hands  away 
quickly  and  rose  suddenly  to  her  feet. 
"  Are  you  mad?  "  she  asked.  "  Marry 
you?  I?  You  must  be  dreaming!" 

Harry  Gilleon  remained  sitting  on 
the  little  stool,  with  his  head  still  bowed. 
'  You  are  laughing,"  he  said  slowly, 
and  his  carefully  controlled  voice  was 
rather  dreadful  as  it  cracked  under  the 
strain;  "but  you  shouldn't  laugh,  you 
know." 

"  I  am  not  laughing,"  said  Jacque- 
line disdainfully.  '  Why  should  I 
laugh?  And  why  should  I  marry  you, 
pray?  " 

Then  he  lifted  his  face,  and  at  sight 
of  it  she  winced  and  turned  away. 

'  Why,  indeed? "  said  Harry  Gilleon. 
"  I  think  I  see  now." 

Jacqueline  trailed  slowly  to  the  win- 

[115] 


Mark 

dow  and  stood  drumming  on  if  with 
restless  fingers.  Then  she  heard  steps 
coming  toward  her. 

"Are  you  afraid  to  turn  round?" 
asked  that  dreadful  voice.  '  You  need 
not  he  afraid.  I  will  not  hurt  you.  I 
would  not  soil  my  fingers." 

Jacqueline  swung  about,  her  head 
high;  but  she  kept  her  eyes  from  meet- 
ing his.  '  You  are  insolent,"  she  said. 
"  And  you  are  rather  silly.  Will  you 
be  good  enough  to  go?" 

"  I  am  going." 

She  turned  back  to  the  window,  and 
there  was  a  moment's  pause.  Then  she 
could  hear  the  steps  going  away.  They 
paused  at  the  door,  and  then  went 
slowly  on  downstairs.  Once  they  stum- 
bled; then  a  door  opened  and  closed 
very  softly,  and  she  turned  back  from 
the  window.  The  nice  boy  with  the 
happy  eyes  had  gone.  She  shivered  a 
little,  and  then,  shaking  herself  slightly, 
walked  to  the  mirror  over  the  mantel. 
There  she  stood,  resting  her  elbows  upon 
[116] 


"Am  I  so  wonderful1" 


Mark 

it  and  pushing  the  bright  hair  back  from 
her  brows  with  slim,  white  fingers. 

"Am  I  so  wonderful?"  she  asked 
softly  of  the  still  face  and  the  restless 
eyes  in  the  glass.  And  even  as  she 
looked  a  slow  flush  mounted,  staining 
its  stillness,  and  she  dropped  her  eyes 
with  a  low,  happy  little  laugh  like  a 
girl's.  But  it  was  not  of  young  Gilleon 
that  she  was  thinking. 


[in] 


VII 

THE  PLOT  THICKENS 

* 

MARK  was  having  a  birthday  party. 
It  had  finally  assumed  the  outward  and 
visible  form  of  a  picnic,  and  after  an 
exceedingly  hot  and  dusty  run  from 
London  and  considerable  scouring  of 
the  countryside  a  motley  group  of  eight 
people  found  themselves  seated  on  eight 
cushions  under  a  large  tree,  and  five 
of  them  were  asking  themselves,  vio- 
lently, what  on  earth  had  induced  them 
to  come.  The  five  were  Charteris, 
Jacqueline,  Cousin  Cynthia,  Captain 
Denby,  and  the  pretty  and  frivolous 
Countess  of  Germaine.  The  three  who 
didn't  ask  were  Mark,  Priscilla,  and 
Rupert,  the  adored  son  of  the  Countess, 
who  was  eight  years  old,  red  headed, 
and  incorrigible,  but  possessed  of  in- 
finite charm.  He  was  now  undergoing 
the  pangs  of  first  love,  and  had  in- 
formed Priscilla  that  his  life  was  at  her 
[118] 


Mark 

disposal,  to  make  or  mar  according  to 
her  capricious  fancy. 

'  This  is  glorious ! "  sighed  Mark 
happily,  as  he  surveyed  the  surround- 
ing faces  and  the  open  hampers  with 
impartial  satisfaction.  "  I  did  want  to 
go  to  the  Tower  of  London  awfully,  but 
next  to  that  this  is  perfect.  Rupert, 
we  represent  menial  service  at  this  festal 
board.  Didn't  I  say  '  menial  service ' 
well,  Cynthia?" 

"Oh,  Mark!"  protested  Cynthia 
feebly. 

'  Well,  remember  Uncle  Hal,  and 
don't  get  familiar  with  us,"  Mark  warned 
her  cheerfully.  "  Familiarity  with  the 
domestics  and  others  connected  with 
menial  service  is  one  of  my  besetting 
sins,  and  I  don't  care  to  see  it  grow  in 
the  family.  Had  you  rather  be  Parker 
or  Huggles,  Rupert?" 

"  I'd  rather  be  Huggles,"  said  Ru- 
pert promptly. 

"  I  rather  wanted  to  be  Huggles  my- 
§elf,"  confessed  Mark.  "But  it's  all 

[119] 


Mark 

right,  old  fellow.  I  shouldn't  have  con- 
sulted you.  Don't  forget,  Huggles,  that 
your  vocabulary  is  limited.  You  say 
nothing  but  '  Yessir '  and  *  Nosir,'  ex- 
cept when  you  say  '  Yesmilord '  and 

*  Nomilord.'    Of  course,  you  adapt  your- 
self when  speaking  to  members  of  the 
opposite  sex.    And  I  advise  you  to  say 

*  Thankyousir '  at  least  once  every  two 
minutes." 

"  Yessir,"  assented  Huggles'  substi- 
tute imperturbably. 

"  And  if  you  smile  you're  done  for. 
Don't  forget." 

"  Nosir,"  Huggles  assured  him  with 
modulated  fervor. 

"On  your  mark — get  set — go!"  ad- 
monished Mark,  and  he  fell  on  one 
hamper,  while  Huggles  fell  on  the  other. 

"  Thankyousir,"  intoned  Huggles  as 
he  fell. 

"Gad!  that's  a  bright  boy  of  yours, 
Elizabeth,"  Charteris  said  admiringly. 
"But  isn't  he  delicate?  Such  prodigal 

mentality  in  one  so ! 

[120] 


Mark 

"He's  as  strong  as  an  ox!"  protested 
the  Countess  indignantly.  "  He's  never 

been  ill  for  a  day  in  his  life,  and " 

She  stopped,  flushing  prettily  under  the 
storm  of  laughter  that  greeted  her  de- 
fense. 

"  He  strikes  me  as  being  sicklied  o'er 
with  a  pale  cast  of  thought,"  Charteris 
informed  her  gravely.  '  There's  a  clear, 
transparent  tinge  about  his " 

'  You're  trying  to  tease  me,"  defied 
the  Countess.  'l  Ugh!  Rupert,  what 
is  the  ghastly  stuff  that  you  poured  in 
my  glass? " 

Rupert  turned  inquiring  eyes  to  the 
other  menial.  *  You  may  tell  her,  Hug- 
gles,"  said  Mark;  "but  don't  wax 
eloquent  over  it.  Sandwidge,  Mi- 
lord?" 

"  Ginger  pop,  Milady,"  Huggles  in- 
formed the  Countess,  and  continued  to 
administer  the  noxious  fluid  to  the  ring 
of  empty  glasses. 

"Ginger  pop!"  gasped  the  Countess. 
"Mark!  I  sent  a  whole  case  of  cham- 


Mark 

pagne  to  your  rooms.  Do  you  hear  me? 
A  whole  case !  " 

"  Yesmilady." 

"  And  two  hampers  full  of  pates  and 
galantines  and  salads  and  sweets.  These 
aren't  my  things.  Cynthia,  what  are 
you  eating?  Not — not  a  hard-boiled 


"I  think  it  must  he,"  admitted 
Cynthia,  surveying  it  with  guilty  in- 
terest. 

"  Hard-boiled  eggs ! "  moaned  the 
Countess  faintly.  Then  she  pointed  a 
stern  finger  at  Priscilla.  "  Miss  Hamp- 
den,  you  needn't  try  to  hide  that — it 
will  just  spoil  your  frock.  What  is 
it?"  " 

"  I  was  trying  to  decide,"  answered 
Priscilla  gravely.  "  I  couldn't  quite 
make  up  my  mind  whether  it  was  caviare 
on  toast  or  stuffed  anchovies." 

"  It  was  a  ham  sandwich,"  returned 
the  Countess.  "You  can't  deceive  me: 
I've  seen  the  awful  things.  Oh,  Mark, 
how  could  you?"  The  distress  in  her 


Mark 

tone  was  so  genuine  that  Mark  relin- 
quished the  despised  sandwiches  and 
came  and  knelt  beside  her. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Elizabeth  darling,  it's  a 
picnic!  What  you  sent  was  a  perfectly 
wonderful  supper,  and  if  you  want  to 
we'll  have  a  dance  when  we  go  home  and 
eat  it  all  up.  Only  you  can't  eat  things 
like  that  on  a  picnic.  It  would  be  like 
putting  on  a  high  collar  to  wear  in  bath- 
ing." 

The  Countess  surveyed  the  brilliant, 
earnest  face  before  her  sternly  for  a 
minute,  and  then  relented.  "  Mark,  you 
are  perfectly  intolerable,  and  I  don't 
see  how  anyone  can  abide  you;  but  I 
love  you  to  distraction!  Did  Rupert 
know  about  this  dreadful  party?" 

"  He  didn't  exactly  know,"  temporized 
Mark. 

"  Rupert,  come  here." 

"  Yesmilady." 

"  Did  your  Cousin  Mark  tell  you 
about  this  party? " 

"  iYesmilady." 

[123] 


Mark 

"  I  thought  so !  You're  not  to  eat  one 
hard-boiled  egg.  Do  you  understand?" 

"  Yesmilady." 

"  Nor  drink  a  drop  of  that  sickening 
sweet  stuff  with  the  horrid  name." 

"  Thankyoumilady." 

"  And  you  take  the  ham  out  of  the 
sandwiches  and  just  eat  the  bread  and 
butter." 

"  Nomilady." 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  '  Nomilady '? 
It  doesn't  make  a  particle  of  sense  unless 
you  are  trying  to  be  impertinent.  Are 
you  trying  to  be  impertinent? " 

"  Nomilady." 

"  He  was  probably  tired  of  saying 
'  Yesmilady,' '  suggested  Mark  help- 
fully. "  Perhaps  he  said  it  just  for  a 
Change." 

'  Well,  it's  gone  far  enough.  If  he 
doesn't  behave  instantly,  he  shall  be 
punished  severely  as  soon  as  he  gets 
home." 

'  Thankyoumilady,"  replied  the  grate- 
ful Huggles. 
[124] 


Mark 

"Mark,  stop  him!"  implored  the 
Countess  desperately.  "  If  he  says  that 
again,  I  shall  go  mad — and  it's  all  your 
fault!" 

"  Huggles,  you  may  consider  yourself 
dismissed  with  one  minute's  notice,"  said 
Mark  gravely.  '  Your  manner  as  a 
domestic  is  above  reproach;  but  I  admit 
that  it  lacks  a  certain  filial  flavor.  The 
minute  is  up !  " 

"  If  I  take  out  the  ham,  may  I  eat 
all  the  bread  and  butter  I  want?"  de- 
manded the  ex-menial  promptly. 

'  Yes,  Darling:  only  do  eat  it  slowly. 
Mark,  is  this  all  we  have?" 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Mark  airily.  "We 
have  lots  of  oranges  with  holes  in 
them,  and  lumps  of  sugar  and  currant 
buns." 

"  What  are  the  holes  for? "  asked  the 
Countess  feebly. 

'  To  suck  through,  of  course.    Won't 
you  suck  an  orange,  Miss  Campbell?" 

Jacqueline  looked  up  with  a  slow 
smile.  "  Thanks  a  lot.  It  sounds  en- 

[125] 


Mark 

trancing;  but  I  don't  think  I  will.  What 
are  you  doing,  Leonard? " 

"  I'm  peeling  a  hard-boiled  egg,"  he 
informed  her  genially.  "  This  is  the 
first  interesting  party  that  I've  attended 
in  fifteen  years.  You  have  given  me  a 
new  lease  of  life,  Spencer." 

Rupert  was  making  a  votive  offering 
to  Priscilla,  ruddy  as  his  flaming  head. 
"  It's  the  ham,"  he  explained,  "  from  be- 
tween the  bread  and  butter.  I'd  feel 
much  better  if  you  ate  it.  I  shouldn't 
mind  a  bit  then." 

"  Ham  has  ever  been  my  ruling  pas- 
sion," proclaimed  Priscilla,  throwing 
truth  and  caution  to  the  winds  and  at- 
tacking the  ham.  "  But  how  thoughtful 
of  you  to  save  it  for  me,  Rupert  dear! 
And  brave  too!  Your  Cousin  Mark  has 
been  looking  at  you  in  a  most  peculiar 
and  menacing  manner  ever  since  he  saw 
you  detaching  it  from  the  slices  of  bread 
and  butter.  He  looked  as  if  he  were 
saying  over  and  over  again  to  him- 
self, '  Ham  or  your  life !  Ham  or  your 
[126] 


Mark 

life!'  I  think  you  deserve  a  V.  C.  at 
least." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  it  was  so  awfully 

brave,"    Rupert    assured    her   modestly. 

'  I'm  not  afraid  of  Cousin  Mark  much. 

Besides,    I    didn't    see   him   looking   at 

me." 

"  Cousin  Rupert,  you're  an  honor  to 
your  country,"  declared  Mark.  "  Aunt 
Elizabeth,  may  he  have  some  jam  sand- 
wiches for  dessert  if  we  take  out  the 
jam?" 

"  Don't  be  silly,"  retorted  the  stern 
mother  discouragingly.  "  How  can  you 
take  out  jam  from  between  sand- 
wiches? " 

"  I  own  that  you  can't  remove  it  so 
completely  as  ham,"  Mark  acknowl- 
edged. "  A  hint,  a  suggestion,  of  jam  is 
apt  to  cling  to  the  bread  and  butter. 
But  it's  an  experiment  worth  try- 
ing." 

*  You're  simply  ridiculous,"  rebuked 
the  Countess. 

"  Captain  Denby  hasn't  said  one  word 

[127] 


Mark 

since  we  came,"  said  Rupert  abruptly. 
"  He  doesn't  do  anything  but  sit  and 
look  at  Cousin  Cynthia — the  way  Cousin 
Mark  looked  at  the  ham." 

Cynthia  turned  a  distressed  pink  at 
this  poetic  comparison,  and  Captain 
Denby  said  "  Ha! "  very  loudly,  and 
tugged  alarmingly  at  his  mustache. 

Jacqueline  began  to  pull  herself  to- 
gether, rising  slowly  to  her  slim  height. 
"  I'm  getting  a  bit  stiff,"  she  explained, 
"  and  the  sun's  on  me  there.  It's  on  you 
too,  Mr.  Spencer.  I  wonder  if  you 
wouldn't  like  to  take  our  cushions  over 
to  that  tree?  It  looks  most  beautifully 
shady." 

"  I'd  rather "  began  Mark,  and 

then  stopped,  reined  up  short  by  the  ex- 
pression of  consummate  horror  on  Cyn- 
thia's pink  countenance.  He  scrambled 
obediently  to  his  feet.  "Is  it  the  chest- 
nut tree? "  he  asked  docilely,  seizing  the 
cushions. 

"It  may  well  be,"  she  assured  him; 
"  though  I  don't  know  the  tree  of  knowl- 
[128] 


Mark 

edge  itself  from  a  weeping  willow.  It's 
the  one  that  I'm  pointing  at." 

'  Then  it's  a  chestnut,"  said  Mark. 
'  Won't  you  come  too,  Priscilla?  " 

"  Miss  Hampden  is  telling  me  a  most 
thrilling  tale,"  said  Charteris ;  "  so  she 
can't  go.  But  you  may  take  anyone 
else." 

"  I'll  come,"  sighed  Rupert  regret- 
fully, with  a  last  lingering  glance  at  his 
fickle  deity. 

"Rupert,  sit  down  at  once!"  com- 
manded his  mother  sternly.  *  Your 
Cousin  Mark  has  an  atrocious  influence 
on  you,  and  I  don't  care  to  expose  you 
to  it  more  than  necessary." 

Jacqueline  drew  a  light  breath  of  re- 
lief. "  I  see  that  we  are  going  to  have 
to  put  up  with  each  other,"  she  said;  "  so 
let  us  make  for  the  chestnut  tree  as 
rapidly  as  possible.  This  sun  is  doing 
worse  things  to  me  than  it  ever  did  to 
Icarus." 

Mark  remained  silent  for  some  time 
after  they  were  installed.  He  was  feel- 

[129] 


Mark 

ing  as  nearly  cross  as  it  was  possible 
for  him  to  feel.  He  had  so  wanted  to 
talk  to  Priscilla,  and  now — 

"  A  penny  for  your  thoughts,"  broke 
in  Jacqueline. 

Mark  shook  his  head.  '  They  were 
rather  horrid,"  he  told  her.  "  And  I 
never  can  think  quickly  enough  to  make 
up  others." 

"  But  I  can  guess,"  said  Jacqueline. 
She  could  not  look  at  him:  when  she 
did,  his  radiant  charm  shook  her  through 
and  through,  so  that  her  very  voice  was 
unsteady.  '  You  were  wishing  that 
Miss  Hampden  was  here.  Own 
up!" 

"  You  are  ever  so  much  the  cleverest 
person  I  know,"  laughed  Mark.  '  Was 
it  awfully  rude?  I  know  that  it's  aw- 
fully silly.  Think  of  missing  a  person 
that  isn't  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
from  you ! " 

"  I  believe  that  I  shall  tell  you  a  se- 
cret," said  Jacqueline  slowly.  "  I 
brought  you  over  here  because  I  wanted 
[130] 


Mark 

to  give  Priscilla  a  chance  to  talk  to 
Leonard.  It  was  rather  generous  of 
me;  but  I  couldn't  refuse." 

'You  mean  he  asked  you  to?"  de- 
manded Mark,  a  faint  tinge  of  bewilder- 
ment in  his  tone. 

"  No,"  murmured  Jacqueline,  "  he 
didn't  ask  me." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mark  thoughtfully,  and 
the  bewilderment  deepened  a  trifle. 
'  You  mean  that  she  did." 

Jacqueline  dug  a  series  of  small  holes 
in  the  earth  with  the  tip  of  her  parasol 
and  remained  discreetly  silent. 

Then  Mark  laughed  suddenly,  his  old, 
blithe  laugh.  '  Well,  it  was  rather  hor- 
rid of  Priscilla,"  he  said  gayly,  "  because 
she  knew  that  I  particularly  wanted  to 
talk  to  her.  But  she  probably  had  some- 
thing important  to  say  to  him." 

"  I  rather  think  that  she  wanted  him 
to  say  something  to  her — something  very 
important." 

"  Is  it  a  secret? "  demanded  Mark 
eagerly.  "Do  tell  me!  I  simply  adore 

[131] 


Mark 

secrets!  I  can  spend  days  and  days 
telling  them  to  one  person  at  a  time. 
It  is  a  secret? " 

"  Can't  you  guess  what  it  is? "  asked 
Jacqueline,  and  she  lifted  her  eyes  and 
looked  straight  into  his.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  implication  in  her  tone, 
and  Mark  whitened  and  his  eyes  widened 
under  the  shock  of  surprise.  Jacqueline 
turned  hot  and  cold  with  furious  pain. 
It  was  true,  then! 

"  Do  you  mean  that  she  is  in — 

"Hush!"  she  admonished  gayly. 
"  It's  a  secret,  remember."  She  bent 
toward  him  with  sudden  charming  can- 
dor. "  I  should  never  have  told  you  if 
I  had  not  known  what  great  friends  you 
were.  Now  you  can  help." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mark  blankly. 

"  You  are  great  friends,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Great  friends,"  repeated  Mark  me- 
chanically. 

"  But  you  seem  so  surprised.  There 
is  nothing  to  be  surprised  at,  after  all, 
is  there? "  Every  time  she  pricked  him 
[132] 


Mark 

she  stabbed  herself;  but  she  wielded  the 
dagger  with  unsparing  hand. 

"  It's  ridiculous,"  said  Mark,  "  but  I 
don't  seem  to  be  able  to  think."  He 
looked  at  Jacqueline  like  a  lost  child. 

Jacqueline  steeled  herself,  forcing  her 
lips  to  a  friendly  smile.  Oh,  she  might 
be  cruel;  but  he  was  crueler,  this  boy, 
crushing  out  her  heart  in  his  strong 
young  hands! 

'  You  see,"  continued  Mark,  those 
clear,  blind  eyes  staring  into  the  smiling 
face,  "  I  never  thought  of  Priscilla  with 
anyone  else  but  me.  I  had  an  idea  that 
we  should  always  just  go  on  playing  to- 
gether." He  picked  up  a  small  green 
beetle  that  was  crawling  up  his  arm  and 
put  it  carefully  down  in  a  tangle  of  dry 
grass.  "  It  was  a  ridiculous  idea,"  he 
said. 

"  How  quickly  the  dusk  falls  now," 
said  Jacqueline.  "  The  long  summer  even- 
ings are  getting  over.  You  are  right,  we 
entertain  wild  hopes  that  we  can  always 
keep  our  friends  for  ourselves,  and  some- 

[133] 


Mark 

one  else  comes  and  claims  a  larger  share 
than  we  ever  had — and  it  is  given  glad- 
ly." She  looked  very  gentle  and  very 
lovely  in  the  soft  light,  and  she  stretched 
out  her  hand  to  him  suddenly,  with  a 
consoling  little  gesture  of  camaraderie. 
"It  is  fortunate  that  new  friends  re- 
main. Shall  we  be  friends,  Mr.  Spen- 
cer? " 

"  How  kind  you  are!  "  said  Mark,  and 
he  took  her  hand. 

Jacqueline  wondered  whether  he  could 
feel  it  thrilling  to  the  fingertips,  that 
friendly  hand.  How  brown  his  was— 
how  brown  and  strong!  So  this  was 
love,  this  dreadful  force  that  buffeted 
her  as  the  autumn  winds  buffet  the  fallen 
leaf,  that  shook  her  as  the  storm  shakes 
the  frail  aspen — this  was  love!  It  was 
this  that  she  had  denied  and  laughed  at 
and  played  with — this! 

"Mark!"    someone    called    from    the 
other  tree.     "  Oh,  Mark,  come  on!    We 
sha'n't  get  back  now  until  after  Rupert's 
bedtime." 
[134] 


Mark 

"  Coming,"  said  Mark.  He  was  on 
his  feet  almost  as  he  spoke  and  helping 
Jacqueline  to  hers. 

She  was  shaking  a  little;  but  her  voice 
was  as  cool  and  sweet  as  ever.  "  I  am 
horribly  untidy,"  she  remarked  lightly. 
"  Picnics  are  disastrous  to  one's  dignity. 
Oh,  I  hope  that  we  haven't  kept  them 
waiting! " 

"  I  won't  forget  how  good  you  have 

been,"  said  Mark  simply.     "  Hello,  old 

fellow!    Are  they  sending  you  to  bed?" 

'  Yes,"    admitted    Rupert    gloomily, 

'  I'd    rather    go    to    hell    than    go    to 

bed." 

"  Rupert,"  gasped  the  outraged 
Countess,  "  how  dare  you?  Where  do 
you  learn  such  perfectly  dreadful 
words? " 

"  In  Sunday  school,"  returned  the  un- 
regenerate  Rupert.  "  I  had  too — much 
rather."  He  scowled  portentously  at 
the  assembled  company,  and  there  was 
a  dangerous  light  in  his  eye.  "  Hell 
would  be  exciting,  anyway." 

[135] 


Mark 

"Oh,  Aunt  Elizabeth!"  wailed  Cyn- 
thia. 

Captain  Denby  gazed  tenderly  at  her 
shocked  little  face. 

"Come  with  me  this  instant!"  com- 
manded the  Countess  of  Germaine 
breathlessly.  "  This  is  simply  frightful ! 
I  am  appalled!  Mark,  are  you  re- 
sponsible for  this? " 

"  No,  he  isn't."  Rupert  came  to  the 
rescue  loyally.  :<  Uncle  Hal  told  me 
about  it." 

"  Told  you — told  you  that  hell  was 
exciting? "  faltered  the  Countess,  and 
Cynthia's  face  crumpled  like  a  rose  leaf 
in  her  agitation. 

"  Well,  he  told  me  about  hell,  and  it 
sounded  exciting,"  elucidated  Rupert. 
"Don't  pull  so,  Mother  darling:  you 
hurt!" 

"  That's  my  machine  there,"  said  the 
Countess.  "  No,  the  gray  one,  Captain 
Denby.  Will  you  and  Cynthia  come  with 
us?  You  too,  Jacqueline?  Then  the 
others  can  go  with  Mark." 
[136] 


Mark 

"  I  want  to  go  with  Cousin  Mark  too," 
entreated  Rupert,  and  his  voice  was 
poignant  with  anxiety.  Where  Priscilla 
was,  there  would  he  be  also.  "  Oh, 
please,  Mother — please!" 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  Countess 
firmly.  "  Is  your  maid  sufficient  chap- 
eron, Miss  Hampden?  Mark  will  drop 
you  first,  and  then  take  Leonard.  Ru- 
pert, don't  squirm  that  way!" 

"  Oh,  let  him  come  with  us!"  begged 
Mark;  but  the  Countess  shook  her 
head. 

"  He's  much  too  excited.  Good-night, 
dear  boy — this  has  been  a  real  experi- 
ence." 

"  Good-night,"  said  Jacqueline  to 
Mark,  and  her  low  voice  was  carefully 
pitched  to  reach  Priscilla's  ears.  "  I'll 
see  you  soon,  my  friend." 

"  Oh,  very  soon,"  said  Mark.  "  You 
have  been  wonderful — I  won't  forget." 

Priscilla  stumbled  on  the  step  of  the 
automobile  and  caught  herself  with  a 
queer  little  laugh, 

[137] 


Mark 

"  Did  you  hurt  yourself? "  asked 
Charteris  quickly.  "  Let  me  help  you." 

"  But  I'm  all  right,  truly.  Oh,  Mark, 
you're  trampling  all  over  everything! 
Those  are  my  very  best  feet." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Mark  absently. 
"  Is  everyone  ready?  Take  Miss  Hamp- 
den  home,  Boiteau." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  did  hurt  yourself," 
Charteris  insisted  gently.  "  You  are  quite 
white." 

"  It's  nothing,"  smiled  Priscilla, 
"  nothing.  I  am  always  pale.  You 
shouldn't  call  attention  to  such  defects." 

Mark  looked  at  her  searchingly.  It 
was  true,  she  was  quite  white.  Had 
Lord  Charteris  asked  the  important 
question,  he  wondered. 


[138] 


VIII 
C^SAR  HOLDS  THE  STAGE 


"  Miss  HAMPDEN  seemed  tired,"  said 
Charteris.  Priscilla  had  just  waved 
them  good-by  from  the  steps  and  van- 
ished through  the  open  door. 

*  Yes,"  acquiesced  Mark.  He  was 
thinking  hard. 

"Have  a  cigarette?"  asked  Charteris. 
He  had  lighted  one  himself,  and  its  end 
shone  in  the  darkness  like  a  little  scarlet 
jewel. 

"  No,  thank  you,  they  make  me  sick." 

"  Do  they,  indeed? "  said  Charteris 
politely.  "  I  presume  they  affect  any 
number  of  people  in  much  the  same  way ; 
but  they  prefer  being  sick  unto  death 
to  admitting  it.  It  wears  off  in  time, 
though." 

"Everything  does,  doesn't  it?"  asked 
Mark. 

Charteris  looked  at  him  quickly,  and 
then  nodded.  "  Yes,"  he  assented,  "  about 

[139] 


Mark 

everything,  I  fancy.  But  I  should  not 
have  thought  that  you  would  have  dis- 
covered it  so  quickly.  Do  you  know,  I 
am  sorry." 

'  The  trouble  is,"  Mark  said  slowly, 
"  that  I  can't  understand.  I  try  to  do 
what  everyone  else  does,  and  the  more 
I  do  it  the  easier  it  is.  But  I  never  un- 
derstand why  they  do  any  of  these  things. 
Before  I  came  here,  I  thought  that  every- 
one felt  the  way  I  did.  Then  at  first 
I  was  sure  that  I  was  right,  and  that  all 
the  others  were  wrong.  Then — there 
were  so  many  of  them  and  I  was  just 
one — I  thought  that  they  must  be  right. 
And  now  I  don't  know — I  don't  know!  " 

"  One  can  be  right,  and  the  other  mil- 
lions may  be  wrong,"  said  Charteris; 
"  but  the  one  is  bound  to  get  hurt.  From 
Socrates  to  Christ  it  has  been  the  ones 
who  were  right  who  have  suffered." 

"  But   they   were  good,"   said   Mark, 
"  and   I'm   not — not   very.      I   just   do 
what  seems  simplest.    It's  so  much  easier 
to  tell  the  truth  than  to  lie,  isn't  it? " 
[140] 


Mark 

"  It's  a  debatable  point,"  replied  the 
man,  and  his  mouth  twisted.  "  But  some 
of  us  would  smart  considerably  if  truth 
were  dealt  out  too  liberally.  I  do 
not  doubt  that  it  is  easier  to  tell  it  than 
to  hear  it." 

"  I  like  to  hear  it,  too,"  said  Mark. 
"  It  mixes  me  up  so  not  to,  and  then 
I  always  forget  and  believe  people. 
Don't  you  ever  believe  them? " 

"  I  rarely  indulge  in  unqualified  trust: 
it  is  too  expensive  a  luxury,  I  have  dis- 
covered. But  I  think  that  I  should  be- 
lieve you." 

"  Do  you  think  that  if  I  changed  peo- 
ple would  like  me  better? "  Mark  asked 
with  wistful  irrelevance.  '  The  people 
that  I  like,  I  mean.  Perhaps  I  could 
change  if  I  tried." 

"  I  wonder?  "  said  Charteris.  "  How 
old  were  you  to-day,  Spencer?" 

"  I  was  twenty-one,"  replied  Mark. 

"  When  I  am  with  you  I  feel  old — as 
old  as  the  hills.  It's  a  rare  feeling  with 
me,  and  a  remarkably  unpleasant  one. 


Mark 

I  should  have  guessed  you  at  two  thou- 
sand years  young." 

"  Why?  "  asked  Mark. 

"An  April  dawn  in  Athens,"  mused 
Charteris,  "  with  the  early  sun  on  the 
Acropolis  and  a  golden-haired  youth  on 
the  white  steps,  bending  to  fasten  his 
sandal.  His  face  is  turned  away;  but  if 
he  looked  toward  me,  I  fancy  it  might  be 
— you."  He  flicked  the  ashes  from  his 
cigarette  with  a  curt  little  laugh.  "  I 
should  have  felt  rather  at  a  loss  on  the 
Acropolis,  myself." 

"I  shouldn't,"  said  Mark.  "  But- 
have  you  ever  felt  homesick? " 

'*  When  I  was  a  little  lad  at  school  I 
used  to  cry  myself  to  sleep  at  nights, 
longing  for  home,"  returned  Charteris. 
"  Sometimes  even  now  I  ache  for  the 
lights  of  London  town.  Well  ? " 

"  It  sounds  awfully  silly,"  it  was  the 
old  Mark  who  spoke:  the  elusive  bitter- 
ness had  quite  vanished ;  "  but,  do  you 
know,  I  get  awfully  homesick  for  Cam- 
elot." 

[142] 


Mark 

"  Camelot?  "  echoed  Charteris. 

"  Of  course  I  just  imagine  it;  but  it 
seems  so  real — ever  so  much  realer 
than  this.  The  towers,  and  the  ban- 
ners, and  the  people,  and — and  every- 
thing." 

"  Camelot  would  be  a  good  mise  en 
scene  too,"  nodded  Charteris;  "  but  Lon- 
don— he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
whimsically.  "  I  can  as  easily  fancy 
Hermes  strolling  down  Piccadilly." 

"  I  do  feel  out  of  it,"  confessed  Mark, 
"and  it— hurts." 

"Does  it?"  asked  the  man  curiously. 
"  I  should  have  said  that  you  were  as- 
tonishingly indifferent  to  all  that  kind  of 
thing.  You  have  an  amazing  capacity 
for  joy,  I  believe." 

"Oh,  I  can't  help  being  happy!" 
cried  Mark.  "  It's  all  such  fun,  you 
know!  Every  morning  when  I  wake  up 
the  first  thing  that  I  think  is,  *  To-day 
something  wonderful  is  going  to  happen 
to  me!  To-day  I  am  going  to  have  a 
glorious  adventure ! '  And  when  •  night 

[143] 


Mark 

comes  and  I  haven't  had  it,  I  really  don't 
care.  It  has  been  a  splendid  day,  and 
there  is  always  to-morrow! " 

"Ah!"  said  Charteris.  "I  had  for- 
gotten to-morrow.  But  there  is  always 
yesterday."  His  face  looked  a  little 
tired  in  spite  of  those  brilliant  eyes. 
"  On  my  honor,  I  believe  that  Youth 
has  slipped  through  my  fingers  while 
we  talked.  I  could  swear  that  I  held 
her  hand  an  hour  ago,  and  now— 
This  is  the  house,  I  think;  yes,  he  is 
stopping.  Good-night,  Spencer.  A 
thousand  thanks  for  a  delightful  even- 
ing!" 

"  I'll  come  to  the  door  with  you,"  said 
Mark. 

"  Why  not  come  a  little  farther? " 
suggested  Charteris,  searching  for  his 
latchkey.  "  I  can  give  you  a  Scotch 
or " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  replied  Mark  grave- 
ly. "  Did — did  you  ask  Priscilla  the 
question,  Lord  Charteris?" 

'  Priscilla?  "  repeated  the  man.    "  Oh, 
[144] 


Mark 

Miss  Hampden!  My  dear  fellow,  what 
do  you  mean?  Is  it  a  riddle?" 

"Oh!"  said  Mark  hlankly.  "I 
thought  you  knew.  Miss  Campbell 
said—  He  checked  himself  suddenly, 

and  when  he  spoke  again  his  voice  was 
a  little  uncertain.  "  It  was  a  question 
Priscilla  wanted  you  to  ask — the  most 
important  question  that  there  is."  He 
stood  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then 
nodded  abruptly  to  Charteris.  "  I — 
hope  that  you  will  ask  her — soon.  Good- 
night." 

The  man  to  whom  he  had  spoken  re- 
mained silent  and  motionless,  his  hand 
still  on  the  lock.  He  watched  Mark  run 
lightly  down  the  steps  and  spring  into 
the  car,  watched  it  start  with  a  subdued 
whir  and  speed  off  silently  into  the  night, 
and  stood  watching  still  after  the  night 
had  swallowed  it.  Then  he  turned  the 
key  slowly  and  stepped  into  the  house. 
As  he  crossed  the  threshold  the  door 
slipped  from  his  fingers  with  a  reverber- 
ating crash.  He  gave  an  involuntary 

[145] 


Mark 

start,  and  then  an  abrupt  laugh  at  his 
nervousness.  Nerves  were  things  with 
which  he  had  scant  patience.  A  mo- 
ment's fruitless  fumbling  for  the  light 
wrung  from  him  an  exclamation  of  in- 
credulous annoyance.  Actually  his  fin- 
gers were  shaking! 

Jackson's  discreet  voice  greeted  him 
from  the  darkness.  '  The  lights  won't 
turn  on,  Milord.  It's  that  annoying, 
Milord,  with  not  a  lamp  in  the  house. 
Shall  I  bring  a  candle? " 

"  Certainly.  You  should  have  brought 
them  before."  It  was  a  relief  to  his 
exasperated  nerves  to  inject  considerable 
acrimony  into  his  tone.  '  This  seems  to 
me  an  unnecessarily  inconvenient  state 
of  affairs.  What  is  wrong  with  the 
lights?  Are  there  no  electricians?  " 

Jackson  coughed  apologetically.  "  It's 
that  hard  to  say,  Milord.  Me  and  Ford 
couldn't  get  anyone,  it  being  Sunday. 

We " 

'  There,  that  will  do.    If  you  couldn't 
do   anything,    you   couldn't!     Explana- 
[146] 


Mark 

tions  are  as  superfluous  as  they  are  tire- 
some." His  eyes  were  becoming  accus- 
tomed to  the  darkness.  He  could  dimly 
see  Jackson's  lined,  anxious  face,  a 
white  blotch  against  the  yawning  black- 
ness of  the  library  door.  "  Here — take 
my  cane  and  hat!  Be  quick  with  that 
candle!  And — Jackson!"  His  per- 
emptory tone  arrested  the  hurried  re- 
treat of  Jackson's  obedient  feet. 

"Yes,  Milord." 

"  Some  cognac  and  a  biscuit." 

"  Yes,  Milord." 

The  swift  footfalls  died  away,  and 
Charteris  stood  alone  again.  What  had 
that  yellow-haired  young  pagan  said? 
That  Priscilla — that  Priscilla — ah,  what 
folly!  And  yet — was  it  sheer  folly? 
Her  eyes  that  afternoon  when  she  had 
listened  to  him — he  could  see  them  now, 
shining  on  him  through  the  darkness. 
They  had  thrilled  him  strangely,  those 
shimmering  eyes, — clear  and  sweet  and 
fresh  as  a  child's,  while  somewhere  in  their 
depths  lurked  and  mocked  that  eternal 

[147] 


Mark 

sphinx,  a  woman's  soul.  Ah,  Priscilla, 
little,  fragile,  mysterious  creature,  at 
once  vivid  and  demure — a  white  candle, 
a  silver  star — light  in  the  darkness,  little 
pale  flame!  And  that  flame — it  burned 
for  him?  A  sudden  overwhelming  ten- 
derness shook  him,  a  longing  to  shelter 

the  flame,  to He  shivered  strongly, 

his  face  contracting  with  a  sudden  spasm 
of  bitterness.  What  dreams — what  folly 
— madder  than  madness  itself!  The 
steps  were  returning;  there  was  a  glim- 
mer of  light  at  the  end  of  the  corridor; 
Jackson  was  there,  a  candle  in  each 
hand. 

Charteris  moved  quickly  toward  the 
space  darker  than  the  darkness  that 
formed  the  library  door. 

"  Put  them  here,"  he  said  curtly. 
"  No,  on  the  table.  Where  is  the  co- 
gnac? " 

"  Ford  is  bringing  it,  Milord." 

"  Ah,  yes.  I  didn't  see  him.  This  in- 
fernal darkness Neither  of  you 

need  wait  for  me.  I  have  a  candle  and 
[148] 


Mark 

all  that  I  need  here.  See  that  an  elec- 
trician straightens  this  out  to-morrow." 

"Yes,  Milord.     Good-night,  Milord." 

"  Good-night,"  nodded  Charteris,  with 
a  twisted  half-smile. 

Behind  the  anxious  suavity  of  Jack- 
son's voice  rang  Mark's  joyous  mockery 
and  Rupert's  shrill  treble.  Mark!  The 
smile  died  suddenly.  If  he  could  only 
remember  exactly  what  the  boy  had  said! 
Possibly  he  had  misconstrued  it,  mis- 
understood  His  face  contracted 

again  in  his  effort  to  remember.  It  was 
something  about  a  question — the  most 
important  question  —  that  Priscilla 
wanted  him  to  ask  her.  Innocent  enough 
on  the  surface;  but  it  went  deeper  than 
the  surface. 

At  those  few  simple  words  of  Mark's 
a  violent  explosion  had  taken  place,  and 
by  its  blinding  white  light  he  had  sud- 
denly seen  into  their  two  souls.  There 
was  no  real  doubt  in  his  mind  as  to 
what  Mark  had  meant  by  that  question, 
—it  was  only  that  the  quiet  and  the 

[149] 


Mark 

dark  after  the  blinding  flash  were  terrify- 
ing, it  was  only  that  he  was  still  a  little 
stunned.  Now  he  must  pull  himself  to- 
gether, and  think  like  the  extremely  rea- 
sonable and  cool  individual  that  Leonard 
Charteris  had  been  an  hour  ago. 

Attaching  the  highest  and  most  sig- 
nificant importance  to  the  words  that 
Mark  had  uttered  on  the  doorstep,  what 
did  they  come  to?  Was  there  anything 
in  them  to  shake  to  the  foundation  that 
self-complacent  soul,  that  brilliant,  self- 
ish mind,  that  withered  and  petrified 
organ  that  humanity  in  general  was 
prone  to  classify  as  a  heart?  Was  he  a 
lad  of  twenty,  that  they  should  para- 
lyze that  dominant  mind?  What  did 
they  come  to,  those  words?  A  little 
American  heiress  wished  him  to  ask  her 
hand  in  marriage — no  more,  no  less!  A 
strikingly  romantic  situation,  to  set  his 
fingers  shaking  and  his  eyes  burning! 
Her  impossible  mother  had  probably  had 
her  strident  voice  in  the  matter.  One 
world-worn  cynic  with  as  many  debts  as 
[150] 


Mark 

he  had  years,  a  somewhat  tarnished  cor- 
onet, and  a  very  glittering  name  for 
assets,  was  a  rare  prize  to  be  captured! 
He  smiled  mockingly. 

After  all,  why  not?  It  would  be  an 
excellent  match — Marian  would  be  de- 
lighted. Life  was  rather  dull  nowadays; 
debts  lost  their  pristine  charm  and 
glamour;  and  the  little  American  heiress 

was  decidedly  amusing He  stopped 

short.  It  was  Priscilla  whom  he  was 
blaspheming  thus — Priscilla!  He  had 
forgotten  that  it  was  his  little  white 
flower,  his  little  white  flame,  that  he  was 
trampling  on  with  his  vile  feet,  defiling 
with  his  vile  hands.  Priscilla  could  have 
only  one  reason  for  desiring  him  to  ask 
that  question,  and  that  reason  was  the 
unheard  of,  the  undreamed  of,  the  mir- 
acle of  miracles, — she  loved  him! 

For  a  moment  Charteris  bowed  his 
head,  the  debonair  and  unregenerate 
head  that  had  been  for  many  years  at 
once  the  pride  and  the  scandal  of  Lon- 
don. The  head  that  had  held  itself  so 

[151] 


Mark 

ruthlessly  high  under  censure  and  scorn, 
under  pleas  and  imprecations,  bowed 
suddenly  low,  humble  in  his  greatest 
pride.  He  was  unworthy  of  this  white 
child,  true,  as  unworthy  as  the  veriest 
villain  in  the  veriest  melodrama;  but, 
since  she  had  chosen  him,  he  was  more 
worthy  than  the  saints  in  Heaven  them- 
selves. Now  he  was  very  quiet  and 
calmer  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life. 
The  stupor  at  that  first  blinding  revela- 
tion of  his  love,  the  fever  of  excitement 
that  had  followed,  the  savage  irony  of 
his  recoil, — all  had  fled,  and  left  him 
with  that  peculiar  peace,  that  treacher- 
ous lightness  of  head,  mistaken  for  level- 
ness  of  head,  that  is  the  inevitable  sequel 
to  delirium.  It  all  seemed  so  clear  and 
reasonable,  so  almost  inevitable! 

How  had  Mark  known  Priscilla's  se- 
cret? Simplicity  itself!  He  had  loved 
her,  as  all  the  world  must  love  her,  and 
when  he  had  told  her  of  his  worship  her 
beautiful,  fearless  candor  had  led  her  to 
tell  him  her  reason  for  rejecting  it.  How 
[152] 


Mark 

had  he  been  blind  to  it,  he  who  could 
calculate  from  the  flicker  of  an  eyelash 
what  fires  burned  within?  But  how 
blind  he  had  been  to  that  passion  of  ten- 
derness that  was  stored  within  his  own 
heart!  It  was  all  true,  as  true  as  it  was 
strange,  as  strange  as  it  was  beautiful. 
Nothing  remained  now  save  to  set  his 
house  in  order  and  to  ask  Priscilla  that 
question — the  most  important  question! 

He  sprang  across  the  dark  room  with 
a  step  as  light  and  sure  as  any  boy's, 
seized  on  a  small  dark  wood  box  and 
brought  it  triumphantly  back  to  the 
friendly  light  of  the  candles.  His  fin- 
gers ran  lightly  over  its  smooth  surface 
for  a  minute — hesitated — pressed — the 
rounded  top  flew  back,  and  out  on  the 
polished  table  frothed  its  contents,  ex- 
haling a  discreetly  blended  fragrance  of 
orris  and  sealing  wax,  infinitely  feminine 
in  its  faint  appeal.  The  little  dark  box 
contained  Great  Caesar's  conquests. 
Within  it  lay  the  daily  payments  exacted 
from  Fate,  to  reimburse  him  for  that 

[153] 


Mark 

vast  theft  of  long  ago.  They  were  more, 
those  dainty,  faintly  tinted  things, — dove 
gray  and  soft  lavender,  dull  blue  and 
ivory,  with  here  and  there  a  flaunting, 
vulgar  rosy  one, — the  wings  of  broken 
butterflies  and  dead  moths.  They  had 
been  the  food  of  his  vanity;  on  them  he 
had  sustained  his  starving  soul.  Now  he 
had  the  better  food — nectar  and  am- 
brosia— the  food  of  the  gods! 

He  smiled  faintly,  a  ghost  of  his  old 
ironical  smile.  The  situation  was  so  ab- 
surdly and  acutely  theatrical  that  he  could 
almost  see  the  limelights,  hear  the  violins, 
smell  the  paint.  Well,  his  attitude 
should  be  far  from  melodramatic.  He 
laid  ruthless  hands  on  the  pretty,  fragile 
trifles,  sheltering  the  flame  of  the  can- 
dle with  one  curved  palm.  How  they 
rustled  and  protested  at  its  devouring 
heat!  Charteris  smiled  again  grimly  as 
the  words  stood  out,  sharp  and  black  for 
a  second,  before  they  vanished  forever,— 
"  You  swore  "  —  "  forgive  "— "  ever  "  - 
"  forever  "  —  "  always  "— "  eternally  "- 
[154] 


Mark 

great  words  traced  by  little  fingers! 
How  surely  the  grouped  exclamation 
points  and  the  reckless  dashes,  the  lines 
crossed  out  and  the  words  underscored, 
betrayed  their  feminine  origin — more 
surely  even  than  the  faint  tints  and  the 
fainter  odors!  The  pretty  drift  was 
dwindling  steadily,  the  fine  pile  of  gray 
ashes  waxing  apace — and  Charteris  still 
smiled. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  dark  little  box 
lay  something  wrapped  in  white  paper, 
as  though  in  a  shroud.  He  lifted  it  out, 
holding  it  toward  the  flame  as  he  had 
held  the  others,  only  to  withdraw  it  and 
pull  off  its  sheath  with  a  nervous  little 
gesture.  It  was  a  photograph,  stained 
and  blurred  and  faded, — a  girl,  with  a 
mist  of  something  white  about  her  slop- 
ing shoulders  and  her  heavy  hair  caught 
up  with  a  great  carved  comb,  in  order  to 
show  better  the  exquisite  line  of  her 
neck.  Under  straight  brows  her  eyes 
looked  out,  long  and  sweet  and  sleepy, 
and  the  curved,  laughing  mouth  harmo- 

[155] 


Mark 

nized  perfectly  with  the  delicate  tilt  of 
her  nose.  Charteris  contemplated  it 
curiously  with  an  abstracted  little  frown. 
Were  those  his  tears  that  had  stained  it 
a  quarter  of  a  century  ago — his  kisses 
that  had  worn  it?  Were  those  the  eyes 
to  which  he  had  lifted  the  incense  of  his 
adoration,  those  the  lips  to  which  had 
risen  the  prayers  of  his  soul?  He  stared 
at  the  lovely,  mocking  face  intently  for 
a  moment,  then  consigned  it  steadily  to 
the  consuming  flame.  But  he  turned  his 
eyes  away,  He  could  not  watch  it  burn: 
so  much  burned  with  it! 

Not  till  the  flame  singed  his  fingers  did 
he  turn  and  scoop  the  little  pile  of  soft 
gray  dust  into  his  hand.  Where  should 
he  put  it?  Nothing  must  remain,  not 
even  the  ashes!  His  eye  lighted  on  the 
window  and  his  face  cleared.  An  ivory 
paper  cutter  lay  on  the  table,  and  he 
picked  it  up.  He  would  lay  these  many 
ghosts  by  decent  burial,  so  that  they 
might  not  return  to  haunt  him.  The 
long  French  window  opened  on  a  narrow 
[156] 


Mark 

balcony.  Around  its  iron  edge  ran  gay 
flower  boxes,  still  bravely  blooming. 
The  rose  geraniums  were  turning  a  little 
brown,  the  marguerites  a  little  yellow- 
time  was  when  the  mignonette  and  the 
verbena  had  filled  the  still  night  with 
stronger  fragrance;  but  in  the  kind 
moonlight  they  seemed  passing  fair  and 
smelt  passing  sweet.  So  thought  Char- 
teris,  as  he  turned  up  the  good  brown 
earth  with  his  little  ivory  trowel  and 
placed  his  light  burden  carefully  in  the 
hollow,  smoothing  it  over  gently.  Dust 
to  dust — ashes  to  ashes!  How  sweet  the 
mignonette  smelled — how  white  the 
daisies  were  in  the  moonlight!  As  he 
turned  back  to  the  room,  his  eye  caught 
for  a  second  his  reflection  in  the  mirror. 
Was  it  only  the  moonlight  that  made  his 
hair  so  white?  He  turned  away  swiftly. 
No,  he  was  young — he  was  young!  The 
gray  of  the  ashes,  the  gray  of  his  hair — 
he  would  forget  them.  The  little  dark  box 
on  the  table  looked  strangely  empty.  He 
closed  it  almost  tenderly.  Soon,  soon, 

[157] 


Mark 

little  box,  you  would  be  full  again,  with 
small  white  letters — white  wings  that 
would  carry  him  past  Heaven  itself! 

The  man  stood  by  the  window,  over 
the  dead  ashes  and  the  living  flowers, 
waiting  for  the  dawn  to  break.  To- 
morrow! The  God  of  his  youth  had 
given  him  back  the  great  gift  of  to-mor- 
row! After  this  silver  night,  the  ruddy 
dawn,  bringing  with  it  his  glorious  ad- 
venture! Outside  the  moon  shone  over 
the  roofs  of  London  town,  white  and 
tranquil;  the  mignonette  and  the  verbena 
censed  the  still  air  with  their  clean,  faint 
fragrance;  the  marguerites  smiled  stead- 
fastly up  to  their  little  silver  friends  in 
the  sky.  And  through  the  white  night 
the  man  kept  his  vigil,  remembering  only 
that  Love  was  young,  and  forgetting 
that  he  was  old. 


[158] 


IX 
ENTER  A  DOLL 


"  I  OUGHTN'T  to  have  let  you  come 
up,"  said  Priscilla;  "but  I  wanted  to 
see  you,  so  I  did." 

She  was  clothed  in  black  from  head  to 
foot, — not  a  frail,  shimmering  black,  but 
a  somber  little  frock  of  uncompromising 
severity,  relieved  only  by  a  low,  broad 
collar  and  deep  cuffs  of  sheer  lawn.  The 
collar  was  fastened  by  a  small  black 
enamel  brooch,  and  she  was  twisting 
nervously  in  her  hands  a  diminutive  white 
square,  edged  with  black. 

"Something  has  happened?"  asked 
Charteris.  "  Forgive  me,  I  did  not 
know." 

"  It  isn't  anything,"  explained  Pris- 
cilla,  with  a  little  catch  in  her  breath, — 
"  anything  real,  I  mean.  I — I'm  just 
in  mourning  for  myself.  It's  my  un- 
happy dress.  I  suppose  it's  awfully 
silly?" 

[159] 


Mark 

"  I'm  afraid  that  I  don't  quite  under- 
stand," said  Charteris  gently.  '  Your 
unhappy  dress?" 

"  That  I  wear  when  I'm  very  miser- 
able, you  know,  and  dreadfully  sorry  for 
myself.  You  can't  think  how  sorry  I  am 
for  myself  to-day !  " 

Charteris  took  a  quick  step  toward 
her.  He  would  ask  her  now! 

"  I  can't  even  cry,"  Priscilla  was  say- 
ing forlornly.  "  I  can  just  sit  and 
smother  in  black  butterflies,  and  watch 
my  doll  leaking  rivers  of  sawdust."  She 
laughed  up  at  him  suddenly,  a  little, 
elfin  laugh.  "  I  can't  possibly  think, 
Lord  Charteris,  why  I  am  telling  you  all 
this;  but  then  I  can't  possibly  think  why 
I  let  you  come  up  at  all,  to  see  me 
mourning  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  over— 
myself.  I  think  it  must  have  been  be- 
cause it  was  so  good  of  you  to  come  and 
play  with  me  when  I  was  lonely.  What 
have  you  come  to  play? " 

"  I  have  not  come  to  play,"  said  Char- 
teris, and  his  voice  vibrated  strangely. 
[160] 


Mark 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you  the  most  im- 
portant question.  Priscilla "  But 

the  words  died  suddenly  as  though 
someone  had  struck  them  from  his 
lips. 

Priscilla's  small  face  had  grown  whiter 
than  the  lawn  collar  at  her  throat,  and 
in  the  terrified,  startled  eyes  lifted  to 
his  he  read  the  warrant  of  many  deaths. 
In  the  brief  minute  of  silence  that  fol- 
lowed the  executioner  did  his  work. 
Pride  died,  Pride  who  had  been  so  tall 
and  lusty;  Hope  died  too,  she  with  the 
glad  eyes  and  shining  hair;  his  young 
Faith,  who  had  grown  so  sweet  and 
strong  in  the  moonlight;  and  last  of  all 
Youth,  golden  Youth,  whom  he  had 
loved  so  dearly,  who  he  had  sworn 
should  live  forever.  Of  all  that  valiant 
company  there  remained  only  a  little, 
naked,  blind,  shivering  child,  with  the 
laughter  dead  in  its  throat  and  the  roses 
dead  in  its  curls — in  that  brief  minute 
all  had  died  save  Love!  Charteris  put 
out  his  hand  suddenly  and  caught  at  the 

[161] 


Mark 

mantel.  He  needed  something  to  hold 
to,  even  though  it  were  cold  marble. 

As  for  Priscilla,  she  continued  to  stare 
at  him  with  wide,  panicstricken  eyes,  and 
then,  with  no  warning,  she  flung  herself 
into  the  deep  armchair,  bowed  her  small 
black  head  on  her  arms,  and  wept  as 
though  her  heart  would  break.  At  the 
sound  of  those  great,  uncontrollable, 
gasping  sobs  Charteris  shivered.  It  was 
as  though  a  child  were  weeping, — a  ter- 
rified, desolate  little  child.  Something 
must  be  done — he  must  try  to  think! 
There  had  been  a  ghastly  mistake.  He 
had  frightened  her,  and  she  was  too  lit- 
tle to  be  frightened.  He  must  lie — he 
must  think  quickly!  But  how  could  he 
think  while  she  cried  like  that?  Each 
sob  stabbed  through  his  head  like  a  little 
shooting  pain. 

"Don't!"  begged  Charteris.  "Oh, 
don't!" 

At  his  strange  voice  the  little  crumpled 
black  figure  in  the  chair  wept  more  bit- 
terly than  before,  so  that  each  sob 
[162] 


Mark 

wrenched  and  shook  her  from  head  to 
foot.  And  Charteris,  for  the  first  time 
since  he  had  cursed  his  God  in  the  bit- 
terness of  his  youth,  prayed.  He  prayed 
that  God  might  help  him  to  make  Pris- 
cilla  stop  crying.  When  he  spoke  again 
his  voice  was  quite  natural. 

"  My  dear  child,  you  really  mustn't 
cry  like  that.  Are  you  tired?  111?  Had 
you  rather  that  I  went  away,  perhaps? 
My  question  was  one  that  will  keep 
quite  well  till  another  time." 

The  sobs  grew  quieter.  Priscilla  was 
listening. 

"  Or,  perhaps,  if  we  talk  things  over 
quietly,  they  will  straighten  out  a  little. 
You  must  pretend  that  I  am  your  father 
— or  a  very  elderly  brother  might  be 
better;  at  any  rate  one  who  desires  most 
earnestly  to  help  you." 

The  sobs  had  quite  ceased.  '  What — 
what  was  the  question? "  came  a.  small, 
muffled  voice  out  of  the  depths, 

"  It  was  of  merely  relative  impor- 
tance," replied  Charteris  slowly.  "  I 

[163] 


Mark 

wanted  to  ask  you  if  you  were  going  to 
Elizabeth's  house  party  for  young  Spen- 
cer next  Saturday;  and  if  you  wouldn't 
take  a  place  in  my  motor  if  you  were." 
The  little  blind  Love  shivered  and 
cringed;  but  Charteris'  voice  was  steady. 

"  Oh!  "  said  Priscilla  faintly.  "  Oh!  " 
And  she  sat  up  suddenly,  very  straight 
indeed,  and  stared  at  Charteris  with  eyes 
gleaming  with  amazement  behind  their 
veil  of  tears.  "  I — I  am  sorry."  Her 
voice  shook,  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to 
control  it.  '  You  see,  I  have  been  crying 
so  dreadfully  hard  inside  of  me  that  it 
was  bound  to  come  through  sometime. 
And  I  thought — ah,  I  don't  know  what 
I  thought!  But  it  was  disgraceful  of 
me.  Are — are  you  going  to  scold  me?" 

Charteris  locked  his  hands  behind  him, 
so  that  he  would  not  take  the  little  figure 
poised  on  the  edge  of  the  chair  into  his 
arms,  and  kiss  away  the  tears  from  the 
curling  lashes,  and  the  tremor  from  the 
curling  lips,  and  the  pallor  from  the 
small,  tear-drenched  face. 
[164] 


Mark 

"  No,"   he   denied  tranquilly,   "  I   am 

not  going  to  scold  you.     You  would  be 

rather  a  difficult  person  to  scold.     And 

—I  am  very  sorry,  you  know.     Can't  I 

help?" 

"  Nobody  can  help,"  whispered  Pris- 
cilla.  "Nobody,  nobody  I"  Then  she 
caught  her  breath  with  another  of  those 
valiant  smiles.  "  Oh,  poor  thing,  I 
frightened  you  badly,  didn't  I?  But  you 
frightened  me  too,  you  see.  I  thought — 
oh,  dreadful  thoughts!"  She  pushed 
them  from  her  with  two  expressive  small 
hands.  '  Will  you  really  be  my  brother 
— my  really  truly  brother?  That  would 
be  my  dreams.  I  have  always  been  so 
lonely!"  The  rebellious  mouth  quiv- 
ered; but  was  speedily  brought  into  sub- 
jection. '  You  did  mean  it,  didn't  you? 
You  weren't  just  trying  to  make  me 
stop  crying? " 

"  No,"  said  the  man.  "  I  did  mean 
it." 

"  Ah,  how  beautiful !  "  cried  Priscilla 
joyously.  "  I  am  glad  that  I  put  on  my 

[165] 


Mark 

mourning  frock — I  am  glad  that  I  cried 
— I  am  glad  that  I  was  so  wicked  and  so 
silly!  Do  you  hear,  I  am  glad?" 

"  Are  you  so  glad? "  asked  Charteris. 

"So  glad!"  nodded  Priscilla.  "Be- 
cause, you  see,  just  now  I  am  lonelier 
than  ever,  and  I  want  terribly  to  have 
people  like  me,  and  you  wouldn't  pre- 
tend that  you  were  my  brother  if  you 
didn't  like  me  a  great  deal,  would 
you?" 

"  No,"  said  Charteris,  "no!" 

"  May  I  call  you  Caesar? "  asked  Pris- 
cilla demurely.  "  I  would  feel  com- 
fortabler  if  I  could  call  you  Caesar." 

"  As  your  brother,  I  think  I  may  sanc- 
tion your  calling  me  Csesar." 

"  Dear  Caesar !  "  laughed  Priscilla  au- 
daciously. "  Oh,  I  love  you  for  liking 
me  wherl  I  was  so  lonely ! "  She  sprang 
up  suddenly,  her  small  face  flushed  and 
brilliant,  her  eyes  burning  feverishly,  her 
hands  twisting  nervously  at  the  black- 
bordered  handkerchief.  "  It's  very  hot 
in  here,  isn't  it?  Oh,  here's  Job." 
[166] 


She  looks  as  stupid  as  most  patient  people,"   he  remarked. 

1'iitfi-    Hi? 


Mark 

"Job?" 

"My  unhappy  doll."  She  thrust  it 
at  him,  laughing  a  little  excitedly.  "  You 
see,  all  the  sawdust  has  leaked  out  of 
her,  poor  thing,  and  she's  dressed  in 
black  too.  I  tell  her  everything,  and 
she  stands  it  beautifully*  She's  much 
more  patient  than  Job,  really." 

Charteris  looked  at  the  stolid  pink  and 
white  face,  and  flaxen  curls,  and  the  blue 
china  eyes,  and  for  a  minute  the  old,  sar- 
donic smile  flitted  across  his  face. 

"  She  looks  as  stupid  as  most  patient 
people,"  he  remarked  as  he  handed  her 
back. 

'Yes,"  said  Priscilla;  but  she  clasped 
the  maligned  Job  to  her  heart.  "  Only 
it  is  much  better  when  you  can  tell  some- 
one else  how  sorry  you  are  for  yourself, 
even  if  she  is  stupid." 

Charteris  looked  down  at  the  somber 
little  figure  with  the  child's  face  and  the 
yellow-haired  doll  in  her  arms,  and  his 
heart  sickened.  How  young  she  was — 
how  divinely,  pathetically  young! 

[167] 


Mark 

"  Suppose  you  tell  me,"  he  said. 

"  I  can't,"  replied  Priscilla,  and  her 
voice  was  so  low  that  he  could  hardly 
hear  it.  "  Not  even  you — not  anyone!  " 
Then  she  looked  up  at  him  bravely. 
"  Suppose  you  had  had  a  dream,  Caesar, 
— just  suppose,  you  know, — and  it  was 
so  beautiful  that  at  first  you  knew  that 
it  couldn't  be  anything  but  a  dream. 
You  remembered  that  only  dreams  were 
like  that.  Only  every  minute  it  grew 
more  real  and  more  true  and  more  beau- 
tiful, that  dream,  until  you  forgot  to  re- 
member anything  at  all  except  how  hap- 
py you  were.  And  then,  just  when  it 
seemed  most  real  and  most  true  and  most 
beautiful — you  woke  up,  Caesar!  And 
everything  in  the  world  seemed  gray  and 
cold  and  ugly  after  the  warm,  lovely 
dream!  Then  what  would  you  do,  Caesar 
—after  you  had  wakened  up?  What 
would  you  do  then? " 

Charteris  stood  silent  for  a  moment, 
literally  fighting  for  breath.  His  beau- 
tiful dream — his  beautiful  dream !  '  I 
[168] 


Mark 

think  I  should  dream  again,"  he  told  her 
lightly. 

"Ah,  but  you  can't!"  said  Priscilla 
wistfully.  "  It  never  comes  back,  the 
dream.  Didn't  you  know?  " 

'  There  are  other  dreams,"  said  the 
man,  "  and  youth  sleeps  sound,  little 
Sister,  and  dreams  sweet.  There  are 
some  who  can  sleep  no  longer,  who  toss 
through  the  weary  night,  weeping  and 
imploring  and  crying  for  one  minute's 
sleep  and  for  one  little  dream,  who  lose 
consciousness  only  to  drift  into  night- 
mare, and  regain  it  only  to  long  for 
even  nightmare  again,  who  pray  for 
the  eternal  sleep  in  an  eternal  night. 
But  you  are  not  one  of  those,  lit- 
tle Sister.  So  close  your  eyes,  and 
dream! " 

"  Is  there  an  eternal  sleep  in  an  eter- 
nal night?"  asked  Priscilla,  and  her 
voice  was  the  voice  of  a  little  child  afraid 
of  the  dark. 

"I  fear  not,"  said  Charteris.  "We 
shall  probably  all  meet  for  afternoon  tea 

[169] 


Mark 

by  the  rivers  of  milk  and  honey  in  quite 
the  old  way,  and  tell  each  other  pleasant 
fibs  as  to  how  becoming  golden  crowns 
are  to  our  particular  style  of  beauty, 
and  how  we  simply  adore  the  harp,  and 
how  we  never  had  thought  much  of  the 
world  anyhow  and  infinitely  prefer  eter- 
nity and  the  simple  life.  As  it  was  in 
the  beginning " 

"  I  suppose  that  even  the  lady  cave 
dwellers  had  their  days  at  home,"  said 
Priscilla,  and  her  eyes  danced.  '  Very 
informal,  of  course,  and  their  visiting 
list  must  have  been  badly  curtailed  owing 
to  their  husbands'  unfortunately  mur- 
derous propensities.  But  how  could  hu- 
manity survive  without  the  mystic  rites 
of  afternoon  tea?  Would  you  like  some 
now? " 

"  No,"  said  Charteris,  "  I  think  not." 
If  he  could  laugh  for  just  five  minutes 
more — just  five  little  minutes — it  would 
be  all  right  1  Then  he  could  go.  "Are 
you  going  to  adorn  my  motor  on  Satur- 
day?" 
[170] 


Mark 

"  Of  course !  I  should  love  to.  Who 
is  going  to  the  party?  " 

"  Spencer's  Cousin  Cynthia,  and  the 
amiahle  Denby,  and  a  raven-haired  youth 
who  has  just  been  graduated  from  Cam- 
bridge, and  has  poetic  aspirations  and  a 
muscular  build»"  enumerated  Charteris, 
"  and  my  sister  Marian,  and  the  Gor- 
dons, and  Jacqueline  Campbell." 

"  I  remember-— I  really  knew  all  the 
time,"  assented  Priscilla.  "  Miss  Camp- 
bell said "' 

Something  snapped  in  Charteris'  head, 
and  he  laughed  suddenly.  Of  course  it 
was  all  absurdly  simple.  He  could  hear 
Mark's  voice  from  the  darkness,  saying, 
"  Oh,  I  thought  you  knew.  Miss  Camp- 
bell said " 

'  Well? "  he  queried  smoothly.  "  Miss 
Campbell  said " 

"  She  said  that  it  was  such  a  delight- 
ful combination,"  concluded  Priscilla. 
"  But  why  did  you  laugh? " 

"  Something  suddenly  struck  me  as 
very  absurd.  May  I  smoke?  Thanks." 

[HI] 


Mark 

"  Is  Miss  Campbell  a  great  friend  of 
yours?"  asked  Priscilla. 

Charteris  laughed  softly  again.  c  We 
have  known  each  other  over  a  very  ex- 
tensive period,"  he  replied. 

"  She  is  very,  very  clever,  isn't  she?" 
asked  Priscilla  earnestly. 

*  Very,  very  clever,"  acquiesced  Char- 
teris pleasantly.  "  But  sometimes  she 
does  silly  things.  And  a  clever  woman 
doing  silly  things  is  one  of  the  most  di- 
verting and  heartrending  spectacles  un- 
der the  sun." 

"  I  think  that  I'm— tired,"  said  Pris- 
cilla, in  a  small,  desolate  voice,  "  I  think 
that  I'm — very  tired." 

Charteris  rose.  '  You're  sending  me 
away  again,"  he  said.  "  Are  you  so 
tired,  little  Sister?  Then  you  must  sleep. 
I  wish  you — pleasant  dreams." 

"  Say  good-by  to  Job,"  commanded 
Priscilla,  and  the  drooping  mouth  curved 
with  a  sudden  smile  as  she  held  out  the 
battered,  simpering  patriarch  to  Char- 
teris. 

[TO] 


Mark 

But  he  took  a  sudden  step  backward, 
catching  at  the  mantel  again.  "No!" 
he  cried  fiercely,  "  no!  "  He  could  stand 
death  itself;  but  this  he  would  not  stand, 
—this  waxen,  grinning  puppet  making 
a  farce  of  all  his  suffering, — and  then 
at  sight  of  Priscilla's  blank,  frightened 
face,  he  touched  its  flaxen  curls  with 
gentle  fingers. 

"Poor  Job!"  he  said,  and  the  doll 
mocked  back  at  him  with  glassy  blue 
eyes.  "  I  have  forgotten  what  courtesy 
is  due  you.  It — it  has  been  some  time 
since  I  have  played  with  dolls." 

And  as  he  went  blindly  through  the 
hall  Priscilla's  laughter  echoed  after  him, 
— a  child's  laughter  at  his  clumsiness. 


[173] 


X 

A  TRITE  SITUATION 


CHAETERIS  too  was  standing  in  the 
little  green  room  that  looked  so  large, 
as,  not  so  very  long  ago,  young  Gilleon 
had  stood.  He  was  staring  down  at  the 
tinted,  waxen  lady;  but  instead  of  the 
sleepy,  shallow,  inscrutable  eyes,  he  saw 
a  pair  of  wide,  frightened  ones,  in  whose 
shimmer  of  tears  bright  To-morrow  lay 
drowned  and  dead;  and  at  the  sound 
of  Jacqueline's  voice  on  the  stairs  his 
own  eyes  were  not  good  to  see. 

"  Bring  up  the  tea  at  once,"  the  voice 
was  saying,  "  and  I'm  not  at  home  to 
anyone."  The  curtains  parted  swiftly, 
there  was  a  tap  of  light  heels,  a  rustle 
of  light  draperies,  a  fugitive  fragrance 
in  the  air.  But  Charteris  did  not  turn: 
he  stood  still,  staring  at  dead  To-mor- 
row. 

"  Ah,  Leonard,  how  nice  of  you ! " 
cried  Jacqueline  in  that  silken,  sweet 
[174] 


Mark 

voice,  and  he  turned  slowly.  "  I  have 
kept  you  waiting,  too;  but  it  isn't  even 
remotely  my  fault,  as  I  have  just  come 
in.  See,  I  didn't  even  wait  to  take  off 
my  hat!"  She  was  extracting  the  jew- 
eled pins  with  skillful  fingers  as  she 
spoke,  her  back  to  him,  consulting  the 
mirror.  'There!  Well,  have  you  man- 
aged to  amuse  yourself?" 

"  Excellently,"  replied  Charteris. 
"  Excellently,  thank  you,  Jacqueline." 

Jacqueline  gave  the  bright  mass  that 
so  discreetly  crowned  her  little  head  a 
final  touch,  nodded  happily  at  the  face 
in  the  mirror,  and  turned  to  Charteris. 
"  Here's  tea,"  she  announced.  "  Take 
the  little  round  chair, — it's  much  the 
more  comfortable  one, — and  pull  it  up 
so.  Then  we  can  have  a  delightful 
chat." 

"Delightful!"  echoed  Charteris  po- 
litely, and  he  pulled  up  the  chair, 

"It  is  the  most  exquisite  day,"  said 
Jacqueline,  her  light,  sure  hands  hover- 
ing over  the  tea  things. 

[175] 


Mark 

Charteris  looked  at  her  with  bitter 
curiosity.  It  was  rather  absurd  that  this 
slight,  girlish  creature,  with  the  pretty 
pink  flush  in  her  cheeks  and  the  happy 
light  in  her  clear  eyes,  with  the  knot  of 
spring  violets  caught  in  the  laces  of  her 
gown  and  the  sweet,  low  voice, — it  was 
rather  absurd  that  she  should  be  the  in- 
famous creature  that  he  knew  her 
to  be. 

"  Like  spring,  you  know,"  continued 
Jacqueline.  "  I  have  been  hearing  birds 
and  smelling  flowers  all  afternoon." 

"  Indeed !  It  is  a  trifle  late  for  either. 
Where  have  you  been  this  afternoon?" 

"  At  Elizabeth's.  It  was  just  a  few 
people.  The  atmosphere  was  fairly  sur- 
charged with  informality." 

'Was  young  Spencer  there?"  asked 
Charteris. 

'  Your  acumen  is  positively  startling, 
Caesar.  He  was,  he  was!  Lisa  adores 
him,  and  his  violent  affection  for  Rupert 
leads  him  to  be  an  almost  permanent 
adornment  to  their  mansion.  Will  you 
[176] 


Mark 

be  particularly  diabolical  and  have  some 
rum  in  your  tea? " 

"  Xo,  thanks.  Spencer  is  the  Ultima 
Thule  of  matrimonial  ambition  just  at 
present,  isn't  he — the  pot  of  gold  at  the 
end  of  the  rainbow?  How  lucky  that 
he's  at  the  end  of  a  rainbow,  instead  of 
a  long  dusty  hill !  " 

"  Leonard,  your  distressingly  symbolic 
manner  of  talking  is  growing  on  you. 
Instead  of  a  habit,  it  has  become  a  vice. 
On  the  whole,  I  think  that  a  rainbow  is 
rather  less  satisfactory  than  even  a  dusty 
hill.  Cream  and  no  sugar?  " 

'  Thanks.  I  meant  how  lucky  for 
him,"  explained  Charteris  pleasantly. 
'  There  are  a  thousand  who  climb  the 
dusty  hill  of  flirtation  to  the  one  who 
ventures  on  the  frail  rainbow  of  dreams. 
The  remarkable  thing  is  that  some  peo- 
ple think  that  the  rainbow  ends  right 
over  the  hill." 

'  There  is  a  distinctly  feline  streak  in 
your  nature,  Csesar,"  laughed  Jacqueline. 
"  For  that  remark  I  have  put  two  lumps 

[177] 


Mark 

of  sugar  in  your  tea.  I  suppose  that 
you  have  been  hearing  tales  of  Mark's 
devotion  to  me? " 

"  No,"  replied  Charteris  reflectively, 
"  I  can't  say  that  I  have.  Ah,  well — if 
there's  any  truth  in  those  tales,  it  will 
he  hard  for  him,  poor  boy  I  " 

Jacqueline  looked  up  swiftly,  and  for 
the  first  time  she  saw  Charteris's  eyes. 
Then  she  put  down  her  cup  of  tea  very 
carefully.  "Hard?"  she  repeated. 
"  Hard?  What  do  you  mean?  " 

'  Why  did  you  lie  to  Spencer  about 
Miss  Hampden?"  asked  Charteris  con- 
versationally. 

"  Don't  be  rude,  Caesar,"  cautioned 
Jacqueline.  "  And,  above  all,  don't  be 
absurd!  I  lied  to  Mark  about  the  little 
American?  " 

"  You  told  Spencer  that  Miss  Hamp- 
den was  in  love  with  me.  It  was  a  silly 
thing  to  do,  my  dear.  Why  did  you 
doit?" 

"My  good  man!"  replied  Jacqueline, 
and  she  laughed  delightfully.  '  What 
[178] 


Mark 

on  earth  are  you  talking  about?    At  any 
rate,  it's  refreshingly  absurd." 

"  Ah,"  said  Charteris,  "  I  see  that 
there  has  been  a  mistake.  You  must  for- 
give my  stupidity." 

ff  Absolve  tel"  pronounced  Jacqueline 
graciously.  '  You  goose !  Oh,  must 
you  go? " 

"  Unfortunately,  I  must.  I  have  to 
straighten  out  that  mistake  with  young 
Spencer." 

'Wait!"  exclaimed  Jacqueline,  and 
she  clasped  her  hands  in  her  lap  till  the 
knuckles  whitened.  "  I  think  that  I 
have  a  glimmer.  I  remember  now  that 
Mark  was  interested  out  of  all  propor- 
tion by  something  that  I  said  yesterday. 
But  it's  too  ridiculous!  Was  it  some- 
thing about  a  question?" 

"  A  very  important  question,"  prompt- 
ed Charteris  helpfully. 

'Then  I  have,  it!"   she  cried  trium- 
phantly, and  the  laughter  rippled  again. 
'  Who   in   Heaven's   name   could   have 
foreseen  such  complications?" 

[179] 


Mark 

'Who  indeed?"  agreed  Charteris 
affably. 

'  The  important  question  was  about 
those  theatricals  that  you  were  planning 
which  you  wanted  her  for.  I  told  Mark 
that  I  had  left  you  together  so  you  could 
ask  her,  and  the  poor  child  thought— 
Oh,  no,  how  delicious ! "  The  laughter 
pealed  out  again,  and  Charteris  smiled 
appreciatively. 

"  It  has  its  comic  elements,"  he  con- 
ceded. '  The  explanation  will  undoubt- 
edly cause  him  a  pleasant  surprise." 

Jacqueline  nodded  brightly.  "  I'll  tell 
him  at  once,"  she  said;  "  because  it  might 
be  embarrassing,  mightn't  it? " 

"  True,  it  might.  I  shall  take  pleasure 
in  straightening  it  out  this  evening." 

'  There's  no  earthly  need  for  you  to 
take  all  that  trouble,"  Jacqueline  in- 
formed him  considerately.  "I'll  see  him 
to-morrow;  so  it  will  be  quite  all  right." 

"  No  trouble  at  all,"  Charteris  depre- 
cated.     "I'll    see    you    to-morrow    at 
Marian's,  won't  I?    Then  good-by." 
[180] 


Mark 

There  was  a  hunted  look  in  Jacque- 
line's eyes  as  she  rose;  but  the  eyes  were 
lowered  and  her  movements  were  as 
studied  in  their  careless  grace  as  ever. 

'  You    said    that    you    would    be    at 

Marian's      to-morrow?"      she     queried. 

'  Then  just  wait  a  second  till  I  write  a 

line  to  give  her  some  addresses  that  I 

promised." 

Charteris  bowed,  with  an  ironical  little 
smile.  "  I'll  send  one  to  Mark  too,  while 
I'm  about  it,"  she  murmured  abstractedly 
over  the  swift  scratching  of  her  pen.  "  It 
will  save  you  the  trouble  of  a  rather 
embarrassing  explanation." 

'  You  are  kindness  itself,"  he  assured 
her;  "but  it's  quite  unnecessary.  I  have 
any  number  of  other  things  to  explain  to 
him." 

"Other  things?"  queried  Jacqueline. 
"What  kind  of  things?" 

"  Merely  an  old-fashioned  dissertation 
on  the  edifying  sight  of  lovely  woman 
stooping  to  folly — incidentally  stooping 
to  conquer.  I  may  add  that  I  shall  em- 

[181] 


Mark 

ploy  you,  my  dear  Jack,  to  point  the 
moral  and  to  adorn  the  tale." 

Jacqueline  blotted  the  note  paper  with 
great  precision,  folded  it,  and  put  it  into 
an  envelope.  Then  she  spoke,  "  Are  you 
trying  to  be  impertinent,  Caesar? " 

"My  dear  Jack!"  he  protested  gal- 
lantly. 

'  What  are  you  going  to  tell  Mark? " 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  him  about  young 
Gilleon,"  smiled  Caesar,  "  and  old  Dun- 
cairne,  and  Captain  Mawyn,  and  Louis 
Dethero,  and  the  Russian  attache."  He 
leaned  toward  her  suddenly,  with  a  sav- 
age little  laugh.  "  I  am  going  to  tell 
him  what  I  have  told  no  one  for  more 
years  than  I  care  to  think — I  am  going 
to  tell  him  the  truth!  You  hear — the 
truth!" 

"No!"  said  Jacqueline,  and  her  scar- 
let lips  were  as  stiff  and  white  as  paper. 
"  No,  you  can't !  You  are  a  devil  from 
hell,  Leonard;  but  you  are  a  gentle- 
man!" 

Charteris  laughed  again.  "  Your  un- 
[182] 


Mark 

conscious  humor  is  refreshing,  Jacque- 
line. But  you  are  deceiving  yourself  and 
flattering  me.  I  am  not  even  a  gentle- 
man. I  am  feeling  quite  shockingly 
primitive,  and  I  am  thirsting  for  the 
blood  of  what  you  are  pleased  to  call 
your  heart.  Come,  come,  my  dear — you 
have  drained  enough  hearts  in  your  time; 
there  is  not  the  slightest  necessity  for  that 
tragic  mask." 

"  He  will  not  believe  you !  You  have 
no  proofs!"  said  Jacqueline;  but  her 
eyes  were  black  with  terror. 

"  Ah;  there  you  underrate  me.  You 
forget  that  poor  Louis  was  a  friend  of 
mine,  and  once  or  twice,  when  you 
twisted  the  screws  a  little  more  than 
usual,  he  vented  his  sufferings  on  paper. 
I  have  the  paper." 

"  Ca3sar,"  asked  Jacqueline,  and  she 
rose  and  stood  before  him,  "  what  would 
you  do  if  I  told  you  that  I  loved 
him?". 

"  I  should  laugh,"  said  Charteris ; 
"  but  I  should  admire  vour  ingenuity." 

[183] 


Mark 

'  Then  laugh,"  said  Jacqueline,  and 
she  closed  her  eyes.  :'  I  love  him! " 

But  Charteris  did  not  laugh,  and  for 
a  minute  his  contempt  shook  the  inflex- 
ible smoothness  of  his  voice.  *  You  pol- 
lute those  words/'  he  said.  "  Do  you 
term  your  infamous  ambition  love?" 

"It  is  no  infamous  ambition!"  cried 
Jacqueline  fiercely.  "It  is  laughter  and 
sunlight  and  truth  and  beauty  and  youth, 
and  though  I  drag  myself  through  the 
mire  to  reach  it,  I  will  have  it!  It  is 
love,  and  no  one  ever  told  me — no  one 
ever  told  me! " 

'  The  blood  of  Messalina  and  all  the 
Borgias  runs  in  your  veins,"  said  Char- 
teris. '  Who  are  you  to  claim  love? " 

'  Who  are  you  to  deny  it  me? "  de- 
manded Jacqueline  passionately.  '  You 
and  your  like  have  made  me  what  I  am. 
I  am  the  work  of  your  hands." 

"Mine?"  replied  Charteris,  and  he 
laughed. 

'  You  have  broken  my  soul,"  stormed 
Jacqueline,  "  as  surely  as  poison  shatters 
[184] 


Mark 

the  Venice  glass.  When  I  came  to  Lon- 
don from  the  convent  you  and  your 
friends  undertook  my  education.  You 
taught  me  that  all  your  vile  world  de- 
manded of  a  woman  was  that  she  should 
be  well  gowned  and  well  groomed,  that 
she  should  speak  evil  loudly  and  commit 
it  quietly.  You  taught  me  that  modesty 
had  gone  out  with  crinolines,  chivalry 
with  armor,  truth  with  the  Roman  togas. 
You  taught  me  that  the  sole  duty  of 
woman  was  to  be  amusing  and  to  be 
amused.  You  taught  me  to  be  what  I 
am!" 

"  You  proved  an  apt  pupil,"  returned 
Charteris  smoothly.  "  We  gave  you 
your  diploma  at  a  tender  age." 

"But  who  taught  me  of  love?"  cried 
Jacqueline.  "  Oh,  not  one — not  any  one 
of  you,  who  had  taught  me  so  many 
things!  I  never  knew — I  never  knew! 
I  thought  that  the  vile  trash  that  they 
gave  was  love:  they  said  it  was.  How 
should  I  have  known?  Should  I  have 
known? " 

[185] 


Mark 

"  Jacqueline,  I  consider  this  tirade 
profitless.  It  is  well  done;  but  you  are 
leaving  one  thing  out  of  consideration. 
You  forget  that  I  know  you." 

"  Know  me ! "  flamed  Jacqueline. 
*  You  who  stand  there  sneering,  you 
think  that  you  know  me?  You  are  one 
of  those  who  pushed  me  from  the  stars 
of  my  innocence  and  faith  into  hell  itself, 
and  then  wonder  that  something  was 
broken  in  the  fall.  But  you  fell  with  me, 
Leonard!  And  now  you  think,  when  I 
would  climb  back  all  the  long  way  to  a 
star  that  shines  even  brighter  than  those 
bright  stars  from  which  I  fell,  that  you 
can  bar  the  way?  You!  Now  listen! 
You  say  that  you  know  me.  I  swear 
that  I  will  trample  over  you  and  any 
other  who  stands  in  my  way — that  I  will 
wade  through  blood  and  pass  through 
fire — that  I  will  move  mountains  and 
dry  up  seas — but  I  will  get  to  my 
star!" 

"Then  there  will  be  a  fallen  star," 
said  Charteris, — "  the  star  of  the  morn- 
[186] 


Mark 

ing,  Jacqueline,  that  you  would  drag 
down  to  your  level  to  burn  in  hell.  But 
you  shall  not  drag  it!  " 

"  No,"  cried  Jacqueline  triumphantly, 
"  it  will  light  me  to  Heaven! " 

'  You  are  waxing  quite  lyric.  Is  that 
all?  Because  I  really  must  go." 

'You  shall  not  go!"  said  Jacqueline. 

'  You  shall  stay,  and  you  shall  believe 

me!     I  will  cry  it  till  I  deafen  you — I 

love  him,  I  love  him,   I  love  him!     Do 

you  hear?    I  love  him!" 

'  I  fancy  you  overrate  your  affection," 
remarked  Charteris  politely. 

The  fierce  white  light  died  suddenly 
in  Jacqueline's  face,  as  though  a  candle 
had  been  blown  out.  She  stood  staring 
curiously  at  her  hands  which  she  had 
stretched  out  toward  Charteris,  and  then 
she  let  them  fall. 

'  You  mean  it?  You  are  going  to  tell 
him? "  she  asked  tonelessly. 

"  Exactly.  I  mean  it,  and  I  am  going 
to  tell  him." 

"  Let  me,"  she  said,  and  the  words 

[187] 


Mark 

cracked  and  fluttered  on  her  lips.  '  Let 
me.  Give  me  a  little  time." 

*  You  would  waste  the  time,  Jack, 
and  you  would  not  tell  him." 

"  I  will  tell  him  everything.  Only,  if 
I  explained,  he  might  understand,  he 
might  be  sorry.  Ah,  Caesar! " 

"To  what  end,  Jack?" 

"  He  might  have  loved  me,  Caesar. 
He  said  that  I  helped  him.  He — he 
gave  me  those  violets.  Look,  Caesar— 
the  violets! " 

'*  They  are  dead,"  replied  Charteris. 
"  Do  you  remember  that  you  wore  mauve 
all  one  year,  because  Louis  sent  you  so 
many  violets?  God  keep  Spencer  from 
your  help,  Jack! " 

"Just  a  week!"  begged  Jacqueline. 
"Just  a  week!  It  can't  hurt  you — a 
little  week!  Caesar,  you  did  not  always 
laugh  so  terribly.  I  beg  of  you  in  love's 
name,  one  week! " 

"  And  I  refuse  it,  in  love's  name,"  re- 
plied Charteris. 

"  God  will  punish  you,"  said  Jacque- 
[188] 


Mark 

line,  and  she  stood  aside  to  let  him  pass. 
'  Why  do  you  not  go?  " 

"  In  love's  name,  I  refuse  it,"  repeated 
Charteris;  "but  I  grant  it  in  my  own. 
The  gods  have  diverted  themselves  with 
me  long  enough.  I  claim  a  little  amuse- 
ment for  myself.  You  are  going  to 
Maiden's  Court  for  Elizabeth's  week-end 
this  Saturday." 

Jacqueline  nodded  mutely;  her  eyes 
were  searching  his  face  with  desperate 
hope. 

"Good!  I  give  you  till  four  o'clock 
on  Sunday.  It  will  entertain  me  vastly 
to  watch  your  maneuvering,  and  I — I 
am  rather  in  need  of  entertainment. 
Wait  a  minute!  There  is  no  need 
to  thank  me  just  yet.  In  return 
for  this  respite,  I  ask  something  of 
you." 

"  I  have  given  many  things  to  many 
men,"  said  Jacqueline.  "  To  you  only 
I  give  my  gratitude.  What  more  do  you 
wish? " 

"  Merely  a  slight  guaranty.  You  may 

[189] 


Mark 

send  a  line  to  Mark,  after  all.  Write  as 
I  dictate." 

Jacqueline  sat  down  before  the  pretty 
little  escritoire,  drawing  a  sheet  of  paper 
toward  her.  "  I  am  ready.  Well?  " 

"  '  All  that  Lord  Charteris  tells  you 
of  me  is  true;  but  of  half  my  infamies 
he  is  ignorant,' '  dictated  Charteris. 
"  Have  you  written  it?  '  All  my  life  I 
have  sacrificed  to  Mammon:  this  time  I 
have  been  forced  to  sacrifice  myself  in- 
stead of  you.'  You  have  that  too?  Then 
your  signature  is  all  that  is  necessary." 

Jacqueline  signed  her  name  and  waited. 

"  Simply  address  an  envelope.  There 
is  nothing  more." 

She  addressed  the  envelope  in  her  firm, 
delicate  hand,  adding  in  the  corner, 
"  Courtesy  of  Lord  Charteris."  Then 
she  slipped  the  sheet  of  paper  into  it, 
sealed  it,  and  handed  it  to  Charteris. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said,  putting  it  into  his 

pocket.    "  That  is  all,  I  think.    If  I  find 

from  Spencer  on  Sunday  afternoon  that 

you  have  not  fulfilled  your  part  of  the 

[190] 


Mark 

contract,  this  will  simplify  matters.  Do 
you  still  think  that  I  am  a  gentleman, 
Jacqueline? " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  I  know  that  you 
are  a  beast." 

'  The  tiger  playing  with  his  victim  be- 
fore he  slays  it,  eh?  I  wonder? "  He 
looked  at  her,  and  then  made  a  sudden 
hopeless  little  gesture  of  finality.  "  If 
I  told  you  that  in  forcing  you  to  this  I 
lose  as  much  as  you,  Jacqueline,  what 
would  you  say?  " 

"  I  would  laugh,"  said  she,  and  looked 
back  at  him  implacably  with  somber 
eyes. 

"  Ah,"  replied  Charteris,  "  you  too? 
You  are  right,  my  dear.  I  am  a  beast 
crueler  than  the  most  beastly;  a  devil 
more  relentless  than  the  most  devilish; 
I  am  Yesterday,  whom  you  had  forgot- 
ten, come  back  to  claim  his  own." 

Jacqueline  only  stared  at  him  with 
those  great,  tragic  eyes. 

'  We  have  no  traffic  with  To-morrow, 
you  and  I,"  said  Charteris.  '  We  belong 

[191] 


Mark 

to  the  night.     The  dawn  is  not  for  us. 
The  morning  stars  shall  sing  together." 

"  Are  you  going? "  asked  Jacqueline 
sweetly. 

'  Yes,"  nodded  Charteris,  "  I  am  go- 
ing. And  the  note  for  Marian?  " 

"  It  was  of  no  importance,"  she  re- 
plied. "  Give  her  my  love,  and  tell  her 
that  I  will  see  her  to-morrow." 

"  Then  good-by.  Suns  rancune,  mine 
enemy? " 

"  I  am  afraid  that  we  have  both  been 
rather  ridiculous/'  she  said,  with  a  bril- 
liant little  smile,  "  and  I  object  to  being 
ridiculous.  On  the  whole,  though — sans 
rancune,  mon  ami" 

Long  after  he  had  gone,  Jacqueline 
stood  motionless  in  the  center  of  the  little 
green  room.  When  she  looked  up  finally 
her  eyes  fell  on  the  mirror,  and  she 
sprang  back  with  a  strangled  little 
scream.  But  it  was  only  her  own  face 
that  she  had  seen. 


[192] 


XI 
CAESAR  PROMPTS 


IT  was  very  pleasant  on  the  terrace 
in  the  starlight,  warm  enough  to  dis- 
pense with  wraps  more  cumbersome  than 
scarfs,  cool  enough  to  find  the  air  on 
flushed  cheeks  a  conscious  delight.  No 
one  talked  much.  It  was  good  to  rest 
a  little  after  the  arduous  chatting  at 
dinner;  so  they  let  their  thoughts  stray, 
and  lent  a  casual  ear  to  the  piano.  There 
was  no  sound  save  the  subdued  tinkling 
of  coffee  spoons,  an  occasional  half  fin- 
ished sentence,  completed  by  a  subdued 
laugh,  a  tentative  sigh,  the  sudden  whis- 
per of  a  woman's  dress,  and,  from  the 
house,  the  piano.  It  was  as  though  it 
were  singing  to  itself,  the  piano,  dream- 
ing through  little  wistful  happy  catches 
from  Chopin  and  Schubert  and  Schu- 
mann,— flowers  of  sound,  articulate 
moonlight. 

And,  oddly  touched  but  lightly  scorn- 

[193] 


Mark 

ful  as  was  its  wont,  the  group  on  the  ter- 
race dreamed  too.  There  was  nothing 
to  mark  them  at  first  in  the  darkness  save 
their  cigarettes,  which  hung  poised  in 
mid-air  like  a  whole  constellation  of 
small,  fiery  Mars,  ever  and  anon  whirl- 
ing suddenly  off  into  space;  but  grad- 
ually there  stood  out  frail  wreaths  of  mist 
that  were  the  women,  strong  blotches  of 
white  that  were  the  men.  The  music 
stopped  abruptly,  snapping  the  disdain- 
ful dreams  like  flowers  from  their  stalks, 
and  one  of  the  long  French  windows  was 
thrown  open. 

"  Are  you  on  the  terrace? "  came 
Jacqueline's  sweet  voice.  '  Is  all  the 
coffee  gone?  Have  you  chairs  for 
us?" 

"  All  the  questions  are  answered  in  the 
affirmative,"  returned  a  man's  voice  from 
the  group.  '  What  a  chatterbox  you  are, 
Jacqueline !  I  suppose  that  you  are  com- 
ing down  here  to  spoil  it  all,  and  make 
night  hideous  with  your  prattle." 

'  There  are  one — two — three  steps," 
[194] 


Mark 

counted  Jacqueline.  "  No,  look  out, 
Mark,  there  are  four." 

"  I  know  it,"  retorted  Mark  bitterly. 
"  Having  just  walked  off  into  space  and 
hit  the  top  of  my  head  with  my  chin, 
and  bitten  a  piece  out  of  my  tongue,  and 
jarred  my  spinal  column  in  a  shockingly 
dangerous  manner,  I  am  qualified  to 
state  that  there  are  four  steps.  But  it 
was  hateful  of  you  to  mislead  me." 

"Heavens,  hear  them!"  groaned  the 
man  who  had  spoken  before.  "  And 
they'll  keep  it  up  all  night:  they  love  it. 
Can't  anybody  stop  them?  Can't  any- 
body make  them  go  away?  Can't  any- 
body do  anything? " 

'  You  can  stop  making  such  a 
noise,"  replied  the  unfeeling  Jacqueline. 
'  You're  waking  the  very  echoes  with 
your  lamentations.  On  the  whole,  I 
think  that  you  are  the  most  annoying 
man  in  England,  Arthur." 

"  That's  just  what  Isabel  says,"  ex- 
claimed Arthur  Gordon  excitedly.  "  Only 
she  doesn't  stop  at  England.  Do  you, 

[195] 


Mark 

Isabel?  Jove!  that's  an  interesting  co- 
incidence! " 

"  Isabel  never  stops  at  anything,"  said 
Jacqueline  charmingly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Dear,"  came  Isabel's  soft, 
pretty  voice  from  the  darkness,  "  I  am 
not  blessed  with  your  reckless  courage. 
And  then " 

"Don't  fight,"  implored  Arthur  fran- 
tically. "  Oh,  please  don't  fight!  Isabel 
had  rather  fight  than  go  to  Heaven;  but 
it's  wicked  to  encourage  her." 

"Don't  be  so  idiotic,  Arthur!"  com- 
manded Jacqueline  severely.  '  You  are 
too  absurd!  I  shudder  to  think  what 
opinion  people  must  have  of  you  who 
haven't  known  you  from  your  extremely 
trying  infancy  up.  It  is  simply- 

Here  Arthur  burst  into  muffled  sobs, 
and  refused  to  be  consoled  until  Jacque- 
line retracted  her  highly  veracious  state- 
ments. 

"  He  repels  me,"  said  the  athletic  and 
poetic  youth  in  a  low  voice  to  Priscilla. 
'  The  whole  atmosphere  repels  me.  In 
[196] 


Mark 

this  group  of  human  souls,  where  is 
Beauty?  Where  is  Truth?  Where  is 
Aspiration?  Where  is  that  crowning 
treasure,  Anguish?  Where  are  the  pulse 
and  the  passion  and  the  poetry  of  life? " 

"  I  think  that  you  are  being  rather 
silly,"  remarked  Priscilla  impartially. 
"  I  don't  see  why  you  came  to  Maiden's 
Court  for  a  week-end  if  you  were  looking 
for  the  pulse  and  passion  and  poetry  of 
life.  Did  you  like  the  fillet  of  sole  at 
dinner? " 

'The — what?"  came  the  outraged 
tones. 

"  The  fillet  of  sole." 

"  One  of  us  is  mad,"  replied  the  poet. 
'  The  fillet  of  sole  was  excellent." 

;<  I  thought  so  too,"  agreed  Priscilla. 
"  But  where  were  the  Beauty  and  the 
Truth  and  the  Aspiration  in  that  sole? 
I  don't  speak  of  the  crowning  treasure 
of  Anguish.  It  was  a  good  sole  too," 

"  It  was,"  agreed  the  poet,  and  the 
emotion  had  gone  from  his  voice. 
"Well?" 

[197] 


Mark 

"  If  we  should  only  take  what  we  find 
in  this  world,  and  not  persist  in  looking 
for  attributes  that  exist  only  in  our 
imagination,  it  would  be  happier  for  all 
of  us,"  said  Priscilla.  '  You  might  just 
as  well  have  looked  for  the  pulse  and 
passion  and  poetry  of  life  in  the  fillet  of 
sole  as  in  these  people:  it  would  have 
been  quite  as  reasonable." 

"  In  your  heart  you  despise  them  as  I 
do,"  murmured  the  poet. 

"  I  don't  despise  them  at  all,"  denied 
Priscilla  emphatically.  "  I  adore  them. 
They're  amusing  and  clever  and  attract' 
ive  to  look  at,  and  nice  to  me — what 
more  do  I  want? " 

"Is  that  all  you  want?"  asked  the 
poet. 

"  It's  all  that  I  want  from  them.  I 
take  what  they  give  me  gladly,  and  turn 
elsewhere  for  my  other  needs." 

*  You're  the  first  sensible  person  that 
I've  listened  to  since  I  can  remember," 
said  the  poet,  and  his  voice  was  most  cor- 
dially matter  of  fact.  "Heavens!  what 
[198] 


Mark 

a  relief!  Who  are  you,  anyway?  So 
far  I  have  merely  referred  to  you  vague- 
ly as  a  kindred  soul." 

"  Don't  do  it  again,"  laughed  Priscilla. 

'  There  are  no  such  things  as  kindred 

souls.     My  name  is  Priscilla  Hampden, 

and  it  was  very  rude  of  you  not  to  know 

it." 

"  It's  a  nice  name,"  said  the  poet. 
"  Mine  is  John  Evelyn  Fordyth  Ailing- 
ham." 

"  It's  a  very  exciting  appellation," 
commented  Priscilla. 

"  But  I  am  more  generally  referred 
to  as  Binkie." 

'Why  Binkie?"  inquired  Priscilla. 

'  Why  not?  Binkie  has  a  certain  sub- 
tle charm." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  go  with  the  pulse 
and  poetry  and  passion  of  life,"  sug- 
gested Priscilla  mildly. 

"  Oh,  well,  neither  do  I,  for  the  matter 
of  that.  But  everybody  rowed  me  so 
about  my  general  inappropriateness,  that 
I  thought  I'd  be  really  artistic  for  awhile. 

[199] 


Mark 

None  of  these  people  knew  me  before  ex- 
cept Cousin  Lisa;  so  it  worked  beauti- 
fully." 

"Do  you  really  write  poetry?"  asked 
Priscilla,  and  she  laughed. 

"  I  write  beautiful  poetry,"  retorted 
John  Evelyn  Fordyth  Allingham  hotly; 
"  the  best  poetry  that  I  ever  read,  by 
far.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
haven't  read  it?" 

Priscilla  laughed  again.  "  Since  you 
recommend  it  so  emphatically,  I  shall 
reform.  You  are  really  as  silly  as  any 
of  them,  aren't  you,  Mr.  Allingham?" 

"Sillier,"  he  agreed;  "because  they 
aren't  really  silly,  poor  things:  they  just 
pretend  to  be.  It  must  be  ghastly  to 
have  to  pretend  to  be  silly! " 

*  You  are  right,"  said  Isabel  Gordon's 
soft  voice  suddenly.  '  We  just  pretend. 
We  who  are  no  longer  children  have  not 
put  away  childish  things.  We  play  hide 
and  go  seek  with  our  hearts  and  puss  in 
the  corner  with  our  souls;  we  dance  sing- 
ing over  London  Bridge  every  day,  never 
[200] 


Mark 

heeding  its  tottering  foundations;  we 
pick  our  toys  to  pieces  or  smash  them 
with  careless  hands,  and  then  fall  a- 
weeping  because  they  will  no  longer 

go." 

"  One  can  always  get  new  toys,"  sug- 
gested Jacqueline  lightly.  "  Are  you 
denying  us  our  games,  Isabel?  " 

'  There's  one  that  we  all  play,"  said 
Charteris  from  the  darkness.  "  Blind 
man's  buff,  messieurs  et  dames!  It's  the 
only  one  we  play  in  earnest,  I  fancy. 
Every  last  one  of  us,  groping,  groping 
with  bandaged  eyes  and  outstretched 
hands,  reaching  for  the  unattainable!  It 
brushes  us — it  whispers  in  our  ear — we 
stretch  out  eager  hands — and  it  is  not 
there!" 

'  You  think  that  we  never  grasp  it, 
then? "  demanded  the  poet. 

'  Who  are  we  with  our  halting  steps 
and  darkened  eyes,"  said  Charteris, 
"  who  are  we  to  reach  that  beautiful, 
shining  thing,  burnished  of  head  and 
winged  of  heel,  alluring,  mocking,  ever 

[201] 


Mark 

near  enough  to  touch  us,  ever  far  enough 
to  elude  us? " 

Isabel  yawned  and  tossed  her  cigarette 
into  space.  "  More  fools  we  for  trying 
to  attain  the  unattainable,"  she  said 
sweetly.  "  It's  a  stupid  game,  eh, 
Csesar? " 

"  It  has  its  good  minutes,"  meditated 
Charteris.  '  There  are  breathless  seconds 
when  we  stumble  on  one  of  our  comrades 
and  hold  him  fast,  dreaming  between 
heartbeats  that  it  is  the  Unattainable 
itself  that  we  have  in  our  hands." 

"  And  then  we  lift  the  bandage,"  said 
Isabel  slowly.  After  a  minute  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders  and  lit  another 
cigarette.  "  Oh,  la  belle  affaire!  You're 
a  ghastly  pessimist,  Leonard!  Don't 
you  believe  in  anything? " 

"  Not  much,"  said  Charteris  amiably. 
"Do  you?" 

"  I  believe  in  belief,"  replied  Isabel. 
'What  do  you  believe  in,  Jacqueline?" 

"  I    believe    in    my    star,"    answered 
Jacqueline. 
[202] 


Mark 

"  And  you,  Mr.  Allingham? " 

"  I  believe  in  myself,"  replied  the  mod- 
est Binkie  with  conviction,  and  Priscilla 
laughed. 

"Lucky  you!"  said  Isabel.  "What 
do  you  believe  in,  Mr.  Spencer? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mark.  "  But 
I  think  that  I  believe  in  everything." 

"  Only  that?  "  marveled  Isabel.  "  What 
do  you  believe  in,  Arthur? " 

'  I  believe  that  you  are  a  goose,"  re- 
plied Arthur  promptly.  '  What  I  hate 
about  Charteris  is  that  he  wants  to  make 
everybody  else  stop  believing  in  things 
too.  I  think  that  it's  so  silly  not  to  be- 
lieve in  things ! " 

"  Cassar  is  one  of  those  accursed  in- 
dividuals who  don't  believe  in  tales  of 
fairies,  or  tales  of  love,  or  tales  of  ad- 
venture," remarked  Jacqueline  carelessly. 
"  I  think  that  the  only  things  he  does 
believe  in  are  mathematics  and  Nemesis." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  mathematics  for  a 
second,"  replied  Charteris.  "  I  think  it 
absurdly  presumptuous  to  state  that  two 

[203] 


Mark 

and  two  make  four.  How  do  we  know 
that  they  don't  make  seventy-nine?  They 
might  just  as  well." 

"And  Nemesis?"  queried  Jacqueline. 

"Ah,  there  I  am  like  Madame  de  Stael 
and  her  ghosts.  I  don't  believe  in  Nem- 
esis; but  I  fear  it.  As  for  fairy  tales,  I 
believe  in  them  for  the  young  of  heart- 
in  tales  of  love  for  the  pure  of  heart- 
in  tales  of  adventure  for  the  strong  of 
heart.  Not  to  press  the  point,  my  dear 
Jack,  I  fear  that  we  should  find  them 
sealed  books.  It  would  do  us  small  good 
to  break  the  seals  and  pry  them  open: 
we  should  find  them  written  in  an  un- 
known tongue." 

"  I  want  an  adventure,"  lamented 
Arthur  Gordon.  "  Never  in  my  life  have 
I  had  an  adventure.  I've  had  every- 
thing in  the  world,  from  measles  to  Isa- 
bel; but  I've  never  had  even  a  little  bit 
of  an  adventure,  and  I  believe  in  them, 
and  I'm  strong  of  heart." 

"An  inspiration!"  announced  Char- 
teris.  '  We'll  all  go  adventure  seeking 
[204] 


Mark 

to-morrow!  We'll  hunt  in  pairs,  and 
take  our  luncheon,  and  all  report  prog- 
ress at  four  o'clock  sharp.  Lisa  wanted 
an  idea — can  anyone  suggest  a  better?" 

"Ah!"  said  Arthur  in  breathless  rap- 
ture. '  That  was  a  spark  of  the  divine 
fire!  But  I  won't  hunt  with  Isabel,  be- 
cause romance  is  dead  within  me.  Do 
we  draw  lots?  " 

"  I  think  we  shall  go  in  the  order  of 
our  years,"  replied  Charteris.  "  Let's 
see,  that  means  that  Miss  Hampden  and 
Spencer  lead  off.  Then " 

'  There's  Rupert,"  murmured  Jacque- 
line abstractedly.  "  He'll  be  so  disap- 
pointed, poor  mite ! " 

"  Rupert  is  going  with  me,"  said 
Charteris.  '  We've  had  a  pressing  en- 
gagement for  to-morrow  for  some  time. 
Then  you  and  Arthur,  Jack,  and  Isabel 
and  Mr,  Allingham,  and  Miss  Kent  and 
Captain  Denby." 

'  Where  have  they  been  all  evening? " 
asked  Isabel. 

"  Miss  Kent  is  teaching  Captain  Den- 

[205] 


Mark 

by  to  play  chess,"  replied  Charteris 
gravely.  "  It's  a  good  game,  chess. 
Well,  is  it  decided?" 

'What  becomes  of  Lisa?"  queried 
Jacqueline. 

"  Oh,  she  won't  go,  because  she  wears 
such  high  heels  and  can't  abide  scenery. 
She  told  me  once  that  she  found  nothing 
in  her  extremely  exigent  existence  so 
fatiguing  as  nature." 

"  Poor  Lisa ! "  laughed  Isabel. 
'  Where  is  she  now?  " 

"  She's  reading  to  Rupert,"  answered 
Jacqueline.  "  She  does  every  night,  for 
hours.  First  '  The  Three  Musketeers/ 
and  then  '  Twenty  Years  After,'  and 
then  '  The  Vicomte  de  Bragelonne.' 
She's  halfway  through  the  fourth  volume 
of  the  Vicomte  now,  for  the  third  time." 

"  Doesn't  she  ever  read  anything 
else?"  demanded  Priscilla  in  horror- 
stricken  tones. 

"  I  don't  think  so:  Rupert  won't  listen 
to  anything  else.  He  told  her  yesterday 
that  he  thought  Thackeray  was  an  island 
[206] 


Mark 

and  Keats  was  an  animal,  and  Lisa  cried 
for  hours." 

'  There  is  something  holy  about  that 
kind  of  ignorance,"  remarked  Charteris 
meditatively.  "  One  hesitates  to  disturb 
it.  But  it  is  sheer  fiendishness  on  Ru- 
pert's part  to  assume  it,  because  I'll  war- 
rant a  goodly  amount  that  he  is  ac- 
quainted with  the  precise  nature  of  those 
two  obscure  gentlemen.  I  shall  speak 
to  him  severely  to-morrow." 

"  Children  read  everything  nowadays," 
said  Jacqueline.  "  And  no  one  has  the 
slightest  objection  to  calling  a  spade  a 
spade  before  them." 

'Why  should  they?"  asked  Isabel  se- 
renely. "  I  consider  calling  a  spade  a 
spade  a  highly  commendable  perform- 
ance; except  that  I  never  could  see  why 
a  harmless,  necessary  spade  should  be 
used  as  a  symbol  for  the  objectionable." 

"  No,"  agreed  Charteris.  "  If  we  said 
call  dirt  dirt,  or  spiders  spiders,  or  poison 
poison,  it  would  have  considerably  more 
force.  And  it  would  have  more  force 

[207] 


Mark 

still  if  we  taught   that  dirt  soiled  and 
spiders  bit  and  poison  killed." 

"  Instead  of  which,"  said  Jacqueline, 
"  being  in  a  high  state  of  civilization,  we 
impart  the  salient  information  that  dirt 
gives  an  artistic  patina,  that  spiders  are 
charming  household  pets,  and  that  poison 
is  a  pleasing  stimulant.  It's  so  much 
more  refined! " 

"  Is  Jacqueline  still  talking? "  asked 
Arthur  plaintively.  "  Do  you  suppose 
that  she  will  talk  all  to-morrow?  Aftgels 
and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us!  In 
case  anybody  is  interested  in  the  fact, 
I  shall  state  that  I  am  sleepy;  also  that 
I  am  going  to  bed." 

'  What  a  brilliant  idea!  "  said  Jacque- 
line admiringly.  "  Let's  all  go  to  bed! 
Adventure  seekers  need  a  good  night's 
rest.'* 

"  May  you  find  the  great  adventure 
to-morrow,  little  Sister!"  said  Charteris 
to  Priscilla,  under  cover  of  the  confusion 
of  laughter  and  chatter  as  they  trooped 
toward  the  house. 
[208] 


"Dear  (!;ies:u  !      Did   you  do  it   on  purpose?" 


Mark 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Priscilla,  and  even 
in  the  darkness  Charteris  fancied  that 
he  could  see  the  flame  of  color  that  sud- 
denly swept  her  face.  "  Oh,  Caesar! 
Did — did  you  know  all  the  time? " 

"  Not  quite  all  the  time,"  he  told  her 
gently. 

"  Dear  Caesar!  Did  you  do  it  on  pur- 
pose? " 

'  Very  much  indeed  on  purpose,"  as- 
sented Charteris.  "  All  good  luck,  my 
little  Sister!  Good-night!" 

He  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass  through 
the  French  window,  then  turned  in  reply 
to  the  light  touch  on  his  arm. 

'  You  couldn't  take  me  instead  of  Ru- 
pert to-morrow,  Csesar?"  asked  Isabel 
Gordon  softly. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  Bellina." 

"Bellina!"  laughed  Isabel  bitterly, 
and  she  stood  so  that  the  light  fell  full 
on  her  ugly  delicate  face.  '  Your  sense 
of  humor  always  was  a  bit  brutal,  Csesar. 
Is  that  all  that  you  have  to  say  to 
me?" 

[209] 


Mark 

"  Quite  all.  Run  away  now  like  a 
good  little  girl." 

'  The  lifted  bandage,"  said  Isabel 
softly.  "Eh  lien!  Good-night." 

'  You  cheated,  Caesar! "  murmured 
Jacqueline  as  she  passed.  Her  scarf 
caught  in  one  of  the  vines,  and  he  bent 
to  disentangle  it. 

"  On   the   theory   of    set    a    thief    to 
catch  a   thief,"   he  rejoined   pleasantly. 
'  You've  been  cheating  too,  Jack." 

They  stood  confronting  each  other  for 
a  moment,  and  then  from  within  came  a 
sudden  excited  little  laugh. 

"  I  take  your  pawn,"  announced 
Cousin  Cynthia  happily. 

There  was  a  second's  pause,  and  then 
"Checkmate!"  said  a  stolid  voice. 

"  Are  you  looking  for  symbols,  Jack?  " 
asked  Charteris. 

"No;  but  I  am  having  them  thrust 
upon  me,"  returned  Jacqueline,  and  she 
laughed  brilliantly  into  his  face.  "  Ah, 
well — the  game  isn't  over  yet!  Good- 
night, Leonard." 
[210] 


Mark 

Charteris  stood  motionless  for  a  sec- 
ond, staring  after  her.  Then  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  strolled  slowly  back 
toward  the  terrace,  lighting  another 
cigarette. 


[211] 


XII 
MARK  MISSES  HIS  CUE 


"  Is  this  your  idea  of  an  adventure?" 
demanded  Priscilla  indignantly,  when 
she  could  get  her  breath.  She  was  scar- 
let and  panting;  her  hair  was  coming 
down,  because  her  hat  had  been  torn 
from  her  head  by  brambles  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hedge ;  and  she  couldn't  put  it 
up  again,  as  one  of  her  small  white  shoes 
was  left  behind  in  the  bog,  and  it  was 
perilous  work  balancing  on  one  foot.  So 
she  stood  still,  and  gazed  in  wrath  and 
fury  at  the  two  spotted  cows  on  the  other 
side  of  the  barrier.  Mark  gave  way  to 
helpless  mirth. 

"  Mark,  if  you  don't  stop,  I  shall  hate 
you!  There's  nothing  funny  about  it  at 
alh  Those  cows  were  perfectly  raging, 
and  they  nearly  killed  us.  I've  never 
had  such  a  horrible  sensation — never!" 

Mark  controlled  himself  by  a  violent 
effort.  "  Oh,  Priscilla,  I'm  sorry!  Look, 


Mark 

I'm  not  laughing  at  all:  I'm  not  even 
smiling!    Were  you  really  frightened?" 

"  I  was  simply  paralyzed  with  terror," 
replied  Priscilla  impressively.  "  And, 
whatever  you  say,  Mark,  you  look  ex- 
actly as  though  you  wanted  to  laugh  and 
it  hurt  dreadfully  not  to.  It's  worse 
than  laughing.  And  I'm  tired  of  stand- 
ing on  one  foot,  and  I  want  my  shoe  and 
my  hat  right  away." 

"I  fly!"  cried  Mark.  "Only  don't 
be  surprised  if  I  fling  them  in  your  face 
when  I  come  back,  as  that  chap  De 
Lorges  did  with  his  lady's  glove." 

"No,   don't!"   wailed   Priscilla   fran- 
tically,   and    Mark,    halfway    over    the 
hedge,  looked  back  at  her  inquiringly. 
"  Don't  go,  I  mean!    Oh,  they're  coming 
—come  back,  come  back!    I'm  afraid!" 

Mark  descended  in  dignified  silence. 
Priscilla  was  still  jumping  up  and  down 
on  one  foot  and  wringing  her  hands 
in  anguish. 

'  What  are  you  afraid  of? "  he  de- 
manded  severely.      :*  They  haven't   any 


Mark 

horns,  even.  Their  only  weapon  is  a 
tail.  Their  only  defects  are  curiosity 
and  spots.'* 

"They— they  bite!"  returned  Pris- 
cilla  defiantly. 

Mark's  sudden  laughter  woke  the 
echoes.  "Oh,  Priscilla!  Oh,  Priscilla! 
You  don't  believe  it?  A  mere  piebald 
cow?  Immortal  gods!  She  says  they 
bite!" 

"  Rupert  told  me,"  replied  Priscilla 
coldly.  "  And  he  knows  a  great  deal 
more  about  cows  than  you  do,  Mark. 
You  can't  go  back,  anyway.  And  I'm 
awfully  tired,  and  my  hair's  coming 
down,  and  it's  all  your  fault,  and  I  don't 
know  what  to  do." 

"  You  might  put  your  foot  down," 
suggested  Mark,  and  he  laughed  again. 
"  It  would  simplify  matters,  and  it  won't 
hurt  you  a  bit.  Oh,  Priscilla!" 

Priscilla  put  her  foot  down  so  em- 
phatically that  it  suspiciously  resembled 
a  stamp.  "  I'm  tired  of  your  laughing  in 
that  ridiculous  way,"  she  said  trem- 


The  only  oner"   asked   Priscilla  softly. 


Mark 

ulously.  "  I'm  tired  of  your  laughing  at 
me,  anyway.  You  always  laugh — 
you " 

Mark  was  on  his  knees  beside  her  in  a 
minute.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!  "  he  begged. 
:'  I  thought  you  were  just  playing — but 
I'm  so  stupid!  You  know  how  stupid 
I  am.  You  aren't  angry,  are  you? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Priscilla  se- 
dately, and  tried  to  pull  away  her  hand. 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  quite  so  sedate 
as  a  young  woman  who  knows  that  she  is 
in  the  wrong. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  be,  even  in  play: 
not  even  to  pretend.  It  hurts  me  so! 
You  don't  know!  But  you're  my  play- 
mate. You're  the  only  one  who  under- 
stands in  all  the  world,  and  when  you're 
angry " 

'  The  only  one? "  asked  Priscilla  soft- 
ly, and  her  hands  were  still. 

Mark  knelt  for  a  moment  in  his  si- 
lence, his  head  bowed  over  the  little, 
fragile,  passive  hands.  Then  he  let  them 
fall  and  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  "  No," 

[215] 


Mark 

he  said  simply.  "  I — I  had  forgotten." 
He  drew  a  long  breath — he  had  nearly 
forgotten,  indeed — Jacqueline,  Cassar, 
and  the  secret,  and  the  important  ques- 
tion! He  had  nearly  forgotten  honor! 

Priscilla    gave    a    little    hard    laugh. 
'  You   have    a    bad   memory,"    she   re- 
marked, and  she  twisted  the  great  rope 
of  hair  with  unsteady  hands. 

But  Mark  smiled  back  at  her  invinci- 
bly, "Ah,  don't  be  angry,  Playmate! 
Look,  let's  start  again — let's  pretend. 
Real  things  hurt — it's  so  much  better  to 
make  believe!  You  are  the  King's 
daughter,  and  the  two  dragons  on  the 
other  side  of  the  mountains  have  cap- 
tured your  golden  crown  and  your  jew- 
eled sandal.  Who  shall  I  be? " 

"  The  Fairy  Prince,"  replied  Priscilla, 
and  her  eyes  begged,  "Please!  Please!" 

But  Mark  was  looking  at  something 
beyond  her  eyes.  '  Where's  your  imagi- 
nation?" he  asked.  "  No,  I'll  be  just  a 
passerby." 

And  Priscilla  said  nothing. 
[216] 


Mark 

"  What  shall  the  passerby  have  for  re- 
ward ? "  asked  Mark. 

'  Didn't  he  generally  have  the  Prin- 
cess's heart  and  hand?" 

"  Not  the  passerby,"  denied  Mark,  and 
he  smiled  still,  though  his  face  was  a 
little  white.  "  He  shall  have  the  rose 
from  the  King's  daughter's  crown." 

"  He  is  an  unthrifty  passerby,"  replied 
Priscilla  clearly,  "  to  throw  away  the 
rose  of  the  world  for  one  of  silk  and 
tinsel." 

Mark  turned  away  his  face  so  that  she 
could  not  see  it.  '  You're  not  playing 
fair,  Playmate,"  he  said.  "  You  hurt. 
You  know  that  I  take  what  I  may  take  in 
honor,  give  what  I  may  give.  Even  in 
play  we  shouldn't  forget  that.  Play  fair, 
my  playmate ! " 

Priscilla  lifted  her  hands  to  her  eyes, 
as  though  to  brush  away  something  ugly. 
"Is  it  honor,  Mark?" 

"  You  know,  Playmate." 

"  Is  it — because  of — Jacqueline — that 
day  at  the  picnic? " 

[217] 


Mark 

"  Yes,"  said  Mark.  "  I  hadn't  known 
till  then." 

"I  knew,"  nodded  Priscilla.  "Ever 
since  you've  been  different,  you  know. 
It  couldn't  help  being  a  little  different, 
of  course,  could  it? " 

"No,"  replied  Mark  gently.  "It 
couldn't  help  it." 

"But  we're  still  playmates?"  asked 
Priscilla.  "  Always,  always,  Mark?  No 
matter  what  happens? " 

"  Always,  always,  dear  my  princess, 
dear  my  lady,  dear  my  playmate ! "  said 
Mark,  and  his  clear  voice  was  that  of  a 
joyous  child  and  a  great  warrior. 

"Oh,  if  you'll  only  be  happy!"  cried 
Priscilla.  "  If  you'll  only  stay  happy, 
nothing  else  matters  but  that." 

*  You  mustn't  worry  about  me,"  Mark 
told  her,  "  because  I'm  always  happy. 
So  you  see  it's  quite  all  right." 

Priscilla  closed  her  eyes  for  a  minute, 

with  a  little  shiver.     When  she  opened 

them    again    she    nodded    and    smiled. 

*  Yes,"  she  said,  "  quite  all  right.    Now 

[218] 


Mark 

let's  start  again,  Mark.  Where  were  we? 
Oh,  I  remember.  You  were  about  either 
to  climb  or  move  mountains  to  get  me 
back  my  crown.  Would  you  mind  if  I 
fed  the  dragons  grass  or  something  dur- 
ing the  operation,  to  distract  their  minds 
and  relieve  mine? " 

"  It's  wretched  etiquette,"  replied 
Mark ;  "  but,  as  it's  to  relieve  your  mind 
and  as  they  might  bite  my  person,  I 
courteously  consent.  Feed  them  from 
this  side  of  the  mountain,  please." 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  them  so  much  if 
they  hadn't  spots,"  explained  Priscilla 
feebly,  as  she  proffered  a  tremulous 
handful  of  fragrant  herbs  to  the  two 
monsters.  "  Oh,  hurry,  hurry,  Mark!  " 

'  What's  the  matter?  "  he  demanded. 
The  jeweled  sandal  had  been  extracted 
from  the  bog,  and  he  was  wrestling 
valiantly  with  the  golden  crown. 

"  I — I — somehow  I  dropped  the  grass, 
and  they're  going  after  you — they're — 
oh,  hurry ! " 

Mark  glanced  from  the  two  spotted 

[219] 


Mark 

cows,  ambling  leisurely  toward  him,  to 
Priscilla's  anguished  face,  gave  the  hat 
a  final  jerk,  and  cleared  the  hedge  at  a 
bound. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  assured  her.  "  I'm 
perfectly  intact.  Here  are  the  Crown 
and  the  sandal,  my  princess." 

'  Thank  you,"  said  Priscilla  in  a  very 
small  voice.  "  I'm  sorry  that  I  screamed. 
But  I  hate  cows — I  do!  I  can't  help 
it.  Especially  spotted  ones." 

:<  Then  it  was  awfully  brave  of  you  to 
try  to  distract  them.  I  never  should 
have  noticed  them  coming  if  you  hadn't 
screamed;  so  I  probably  owe  you  my 
life.  These  are  poor  returns." 

Priscilla  put  on  the  shoe  and  surveyed 
the  damaged  hat  with  a  critical  eye. 
"  It's  rather  a  battered  crown,"  she 
laughed.  "  I  hope  that  you  will  not  con- 
sider me  lacking  in  gratitude,  good  Sir 
Passerby,  if  I  return  it  to  the  cows. 
They  can  make  a  feast  of  Lucullus  off 
it." 

"  First  my  rose,"  exacted  Mark. 
[220] 


Mark 

Priscilla  wrenched  the  silken  trifle  free 
from  its  swathings  of  tulle,  brushed  it 
with  smiling  lips,  tossed  the  hat  over  the 
fence,  and  presented  the  flower  to  Mark 
with  a  low  courtesy.  "  Poor  guerdon  for 
a  gallant  knight!"  said  she. 

"  My  father  had  no  better,"  said  Mark; 
but  he  put  it  in  his  pocket  without  look- 
ing at  it.  "  Now  what,  Playmate?  " 

"  I  don't  think  that  we  shall  have  any 
more  exciting  adventure  than  our  pitched 
combat  with  the  cows,"  meditated  Pris- 
cilla. "  I  fervently  pray  not,  at  any 
rate!  So  suppose  we  sit  down  here  for 
a  little  while,  and  get  cool,  and  commune 
with  Nature." 

"  Suppose  we  do,"  agreed  Mark. 
"  Except  that  I  vote  that  we  commune 
with  each  other  instead  of  Nature — I 
have  lots  to  talk  about." 

'  Then  talk,"  admonished  Priscilla. 
"  I  haven't." 

'  That's  always  a  perfect  way  to  start 
an  easy  flow  of  conversation,"  laughed 
Mark.  "  It  makes  the  other  person  just 


Mark 

long  to  open  his  soul.  What  a  treasure 
you  must  be  for  a  dinner  partner,  Pris- 
cilla!" 

"  I  don't  put  it  quite  so  candidly, 
then,"  she  admitted.  "  It  does  slightly 
diminish  the  first  fine  careless  rapture. 
Let's  play  a  new  game,  Mark, — let's 
pretend  that  we're  very  grown  up  and 
serious;  let's  pretend  to  talk  about  real 
things." 

'  What  a  foolish  game,  Playmate," 
said  Mark  gently,  "  when  all  the  nicest 
things  to  talk  about  aren't  real ! " 

"  Aren't  life  and  death,  and  joy  and 
sorrow,  and  love  and  hate  real?"  asked 
Priscilla. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Mark  sim- 
ply. "  But  sometimes  I  wonder." 

'  That's  because  you  have  never  felt 
them,"  returned  Priscilla,  and  her  eyes 
were  bitter. 

'  There  are  things  that  are  so  much 
more  real,"  said  Mark.  '  There  are  the 
stars,  and  the  winds,  and  dawn  on  the 
hills,  and  laughter,  and  music,  and 


Mark 

dreams!  There's  nothing  in  the  world 
so  real  as  dreams." 

"  But  they  end,"  cried  Priscilla. 
'They  end!  Some  day  you'll  wake  up 
and  find  yourself  all  alone  in  a  little 
gray  room,  with  the  doors  of  your  heart 
and  the  windows  of  your  soul  locked 
fast — and  you  can't  get  out — you  can't 
get  out!  You  can  scream  yourself  deaf, 
and  beat  at  the  closed  windows,  and  bat- 
ter at  the  bolted  doors;  but  you'll  be 
locked  in  fast — there's  no  way  out!" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mark.  "  There's  al- 
ways the  key  to  the  fields." 

"The  key  to  the  fields?"  asked  Pris- 
cilla. 

"  It's  to  a  little  door  behind  a  cur- 
tain," explained  Mark.  "  Just  a  turn 
in  the  lock,  a  step  in  the  darkness — and 
you're  free! " 

"  No,"  replied  Priscilla,  "  there's  no 
way  out — no  way  at  all!  It's  because 
you  don't  know  that  you  think  there  is, 
Mark!  No  more  dreams:  nothing  but 
the  little  gray  room!  And  all  because 

[223] 


Mark 

you  liked  dreaming  better  than  living! 
If  you  had  stayed  awake,  they  could 
not  have  locked  you  in,  and  you  could 
have  swept  and  garnished  the  little  room, 
and  made  it  fine  and  bright.  And  air 
would  have  come  in  through  the  open 
windows,  and  comrades  through  the  open 
doors,  if  you  had  not  dreamed." 

"  I  take  my  dreams,"  defied  Mark 
gayly.  "  And  sometimes  dreams  come 
true,  Playmate." 

"Do  they?"  asked  Priscilla. 

"  I  think  that  they  always  come  true," 
said  Mark. 

"  Oh,  you  blind,  blind,  happy  little 
boy! "  cried  Priscilla,  with  a  catch  in  her 
breath.  '  You  mustn't  think  that:  it 
would  be  so  terrible  when  you  woke  up! 
Look  around  you!  Can't  you  see  the 
sin  and  misery  and  hypocrisy  and  vile- 
ness  on  every  hand?  Look  down!  Can't 
you  see  that  at  your  feet  is  dirt  instead 
of  flowers?" 

"  But  the  flowers  come  from  the  dirt," 
said  Mark.  "And  I  don't  see  the  sin 


Mark 

and  the  misery  and  the  vileness.  I  just 
see  strange  folk  who  speak  an  alien 
tongue.  And  sometimes  I  am  lonely, 
because  I  can't  understand  them,  and 
they  can't  understand  me."  In  his  dark 
eyes  Priscilla  saw  again  the  curious  re- 
moteness that  she  had  wondered  at  on 
that  first  day.  "  I  am  so  lonely  some- 
times," he  said,  "  for  countries  I  have 
never  known,  for  pomrades  I  have  never 
greeted,  for  loves  that  I  have  never  had! 
Or  did  I  know  and  love  them  once?  I 
think  that  I  shall  love  and  know  them 
again,  and  speak  their  tongue  and  clasp 
their  hands." 

"  Do  you  mean  in  Heaven? "  asked 
Priscilla. 

Mark's  eyes  widened  suddenly,  and 
then  he  smiled.  "Do  I?"  he  wondered. 
"  Over  the  edge  of  the  world,  anyway." 

"  I  want  to  be  happy  now:  I  don't 
want  to  wait  till  Heaven!"  protested 
Priscilla  passionately.  "  This  is  my 
world,  and  I  love  it.  In  the  golden 
streets  I  would  long  for  the  green  lanes, 

[225] 


Mark 

and  by  the  rivers  of  milk  and  honey  I 
would  miss  the  little  brown  brooks.  In 
all  that  blinding  white  light  I  would  miss 
starlight  and  sunlight  and  firelight.  At 
the  pearly  gates  I  would  sigh  for  the 
hawthorn  hedges.  Do  the  angels  always 
sing — have  they  forgotten  how  to  laugh 
and  cry?  Ah,  I  would  remember!  I 
would  lean  out  over  the  edge  of  Heaven, 
and  watch  the  little,  dear,  foolish  world 
spinning  far  below — and  I  would 
ache  to  think  that  I  had  lost  it,  even 
though  I  had  gained  Heaven  itself!" 

Mark  laughed  joyously.  '  It  would 
have  been  a  bad  exchange,"  he  cried. 
"Alack,  alack!  what  a  sorry  Paradise! 
Mine  is  all  full  of  birds  and  children 
and  stars  and  flowers  and  laughter — all 
my  playmates  of  eternity." 

"  You  would  not  miss  me  there,"  said 
Priscilla. 

"  No,"  said  Mark,  "  because  I  should 
have  you.  Vive  I'Eternite! " 

"What  if  there  isn't  any?"  asked 
Priscilla  slowly.  '  What  if  when  you 
[226] 


Mark 

step  off  the  edge  of  the  world  there's 
nothing  there  but  a  black  hole?" 

"Ah,  how  horrible!"  cried  Mark 
sharply.  "Don't!" 

"  What  are  we  talking  about? "  asked 
Priscilla.  "  Oh,  I  remember — we  were 
playing  at  being  serious.  I'm  tired  of 
playing  that:  let's  be  silly." 

"  I  defy  you  to  be  any  sillier  than  we 
have  been!"  laughed  Mark.  "Good 
Heavens,  what  nonsense  we  have  been 
talking!  Think  of  bothering  about 
Heaven  or  Hell  or  Eternity  itself  on  a 
day  like  this!  It's  so  glorious  to  be 
alive  and  here  and  you  and  me — what 
does  all  the  rest  matter?  I'm  going  to 
shout!" 

Which  he  did,  and  Priscilla  shouted 
too.  Then  they  looked  at  each  other  and 
gave  way  to  hilarious  mirth. 

"I  do  love  you  when  you're  silly!" 
cried  Mark.  '  You're  so  beautifully  sil- 
ly! Oh,  how  splendid — how  splendid  it 
is  to  be  you  and  I !  " 

Priscilla  shivered  suddenly.  "  I'm 

[227] 


Mark 

cold,"  she  said.  "  And  I  think  I  want 
to  go  home.  I  have  a  headache,  and  I'm 
tired." 

"How  hateful!"  mourned  Mark. 
"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  and  I  shouldn't 
have  been  so  tiresome?  Never  mind:  I 
ought  to  have  known.  How .  could  I 
have  screamed  and  laughed  and  talked 
that  way  when  you  were  tired?  Is  it  a 
bad  headache?  Can  you  walk?  Do  you 
want  me  to  carry  you? " 

"  It's  nothing,"  denied  Priscilla.  "  If 
I  rest  just  a  little  it  will  be  perfectly 
all  right.  Of  course,  I  can  walk.  Talk 
all  the  time,  please,  and  don't  be  ridicu- 
lous about  having  made  a  noise.  I  like 
noise.** 

"  I  like  it  when  I  make  it,"  admitted 
Mark.  :<  But  sometimes  I  hate  it.  This 
is  the  path  to  the  house." 

'  There  are  some  of  the  adventure 
seekers  getting  berries,"  said  Priscilla. 
"  I  see  them  through  the  trees.  There 
is  someone  in  a  white  dress  with  green — 
she  has  On  a  big  green  hat." 


Mark 

"  It's  Jacqueline,"  said  Mark. 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Priscilla  quickly. 
"  Now  I  see  her  hair.  How  bright  it  is ! 
And  the  man  is  Arthur  Gordon." 

"  If  you  walk  so  fast  you  will  tire 
yourself,"  reproved  Mark.  "  And  we're 
almost  there,  anyway.  I  see  the  gate." 

"  Let's  go  round  by  the  rose  garden. 
My  hair  is  in  a  most  horrible  state,  and 
Elizabeth  would  have  hysterics  if  she 
saw  my  shoes.  So  we'll  spare  her." 

"  Poor  Priscilla,  you  look  as  if  you 
had  had  as  many  adventures  as  Ulysses!  " 
laughed  Mark.  "  Oh,  look  out — there 
goes  your  dress  again!" 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  declared  reck- 
lessly. "  It's  because  there  are  so  many 
roses.  Wait,  I'll  give  you  some  real 
ones  for  that  tawdry  reward." 

"No,"  said  Mark.  "They  die.  I 
hate  dead  roses." 

"  I  had  forgotten,"  said  Priscilla  soft- 
ly. "  It  has  been  a  beautiful  day,  Mark. 
I  loved  it  all,  even  the  spotted  cows." 

"  JBut  there  haven't  been  any  adven- 

[229] 


Mark 

tures.  Aren't  you  coming  back,  Play- 
mate?" 

"  I  don't  know.     Do  you  want  me? " 

"  I "  began  Mark. 

"  All  hail,  good  folk !  "  came  a  strident 
voice  from  the  end  of  the  garden. 
c  What  are  you  doing  in  this  unadven- 
turous  spot?  I  saw  you  headed  this 
way;  but  my  attention  was  somewhat 
distracted,  as  at  that  precise  instant 
Jacqueline  turned  her  foot.  We  limped 
home  together,  and  I  am  now  all,  all 
alone.  Is  anything  wrong  with  you?  " 

"  Nothing  except  complete  nervous  ex- 
haustion," replied  Priscilla.  '  I  am  a 
shattered  wreck,  my  good  friend,  and  a 
broken  spirit.  I  have  been  pursued  by 
the  beasts  of  the  field.  And  I  am  now 
going  to  retreat  to  a  less  harrowing  at- 
mosphere." 

"  Aren't  you  coming  back? "  asked 
Mark. 

"I'll  send  word.  No,  don't  bother  to 
come  too." 

"  I  will  bother,"  retorted  Arthur 
[230] 


Mark 

irately,  "  because  I  have  to  go  that  way 
to  get  to  my  saddlehorse  that  is  going  to 
bear  me  swiftly  over  hill  and  dale.  But 
if  my  company  is  obnoxious  to  you,  I'll 
follow  at  ten  paces." 

'  You  are  insane,"  smiled  Priscilla. 
"  Good-by,  Mark,  in  case  I  don't  see  you 
again." 

"  Good-by  till  tea,  in  that  unhappy 
event,"  smiled  Mark. 

"  I  feel  singularly  inopportune,"  mur- 
mured Arthur  unhappily.  "  Roses — 
partings — who  am  I  to  hover  near  at 
hand?  I  withdraw." 

"  So  do  I,"  laughed  Priscilla.  "  Never 
mind  the  door:  the  window  is  open,  and 
we  can  go  through  that.  Good-by, 
Mark." 

"  Good-by,  Playmate!  "  he  called  back 
happily.  He  waited  for  a  minute  until 
the  little  figure  had  vanished  through  the 
open  window,  until  the  voices  had  died 
away.  Then  he  took  out  the  crushed 
silken  rose. 

"  My  dear!  "  whispered  Mark.     "  Oh, 

[231] 


Mark 

my  dear ! "    And  he  kissed  it  deep  in  its 
heart. 

Something  cracked  behind  him,  and  he 
swung  sharply  on  his  heel.  Jacqueline 
Campbell  sprang  back  with  a  little  cry, 
hiding  her  hands  behind  her.  But  Mark 
had  seen  the  sudden  gleam  of  steel  in  the 
warm  sunshine. 


[232] 


XIII 

THE  LADY  IN  GREEN  SHOWS 
MUCH  TALENT 


"  OH  ! "  cried  Jacqueline.  "  How  you 
startled  me !  I — I  didn't  know  that  any- 
one was  here."  Mark  put  away  the 
rose  and  came  toward  her.  "  Gordon 
said  that  you  had  hurt  your  foot,"  he 
said  gently.  "Is  it  very  bad?" 

"  Not  very,"  replied  Jacqueline  faintly. 
She  was  still  fighting  for  breath,  with 
her  hands  hidden  behind  her.  "  I — just 
turned  it  a  little.  I  remember  now. 
Arthur  said  that  he  saw  you,  when  we 
were  gathering  the  berries.  Where  is 
Priscilla?" 

"  She  was  tired;  so  we  came 
home.  She  is  resting  indoors  now,  I 
think." 

"  Is  she  coming  back?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  But  you  are  so 
white!  Is  it  that  wretched  foot?  You 
oughtn't  to  stand  on  it,  you  know.  If 


Mark 

you  will  put  your  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
I'll  help  you  back  to  the  house." 

"  No,"  replied  Jacqueline.  "  No.  It 
hardly  hurts  at  all.  There  is  Priscilla's 
maid,  coming  from  the  house." 

"  Mees  Hampden  says,  Sir,  zat  she  is 
still  a  leetle  tired,  so  she  will  rest  till  ze 
tea.  An'  zat  you're  not  to  worry  about 
her,  but  to  go  out  again  if  you  weesh 
to." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mark  to  the  trim, 
small  person.  '  Will  you  tell  her  that 
I'm  so  awfully  sorry?  But  I'll  see  her 
at  tea;  so  I  won't  worry." 

When  the  trim,  small  person  had  gone, 
he  turned  back  to  Jacqueline.  "  I  know 
it  isn't  the  foot,"  he  said.  "  But  what 
is  it?  Can't  you  tell  me?  I  thought  that 
we  were  friends." 

'  You  would  despise  me !  "  whispered 
Jacqueline,  so  low  that  he  bent  to  catch 
the  words. 

Mark  shook  his  head.  "  Oh,  no!  I 
couldn't,  you  know.  Because  when  I 
needed  a  friend  most  you  were  my  friend, 


Mark 

and  because  a  man  must  be  most  des- 
picable to  despise  a  woman." 

"As  I  despise  myself!"  whispered 
Jacqueline. 

"  Oh,  but  you  mustn't !  You  are  so 
beautiful  and  so  kind!  Won't  you  tell 
me?" 

Jacqueline  flung  out  her  hands  to  him 
with  a  gesture  at  once  violent  and  con- 
strained. 'There!"  she  cried.  "Let 
that  tell  you,  you  who  were  my  friend." 

Mark  stared  curiously  at  the  little  glit- 
tering revolver  in  her  hands — it  looked 
almost  like  a  toy,  shining  and  sparkling 
in  the  sun.  Then  he  touched  her  arm 
very  gently.  "  Is  it  as  bad  as  that? " 
he  asked. 

Jacqueline's  face  contorted  suddenly. 
"Oh,  it's  worse!"  she  cried.  "A  thou- 
sand times — a  thousand  times  worse! 
Or  why  should  I  be  using  that?" 

"  Then  tell  me,"  said  Mark.  "  Let  me 
help— tell  me." 

"I  can't!"  stammered  Jacqueline 
fearfully.  "Oh,  never — never!  How 

[235] 


Mark 

could  you  help — what  could  you  do? 
There  is  nothing  left  but  this — you 
mustn't  stop  me — you  mustn't,  you 
mustn't!" 

"  Tell  me,"  repeated  Mark. 

"  Caesar — I — we — oh,  no!"  She  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands,  choking 
back  the  terrible,  strangling  sobs.  "  Oh, 
no,  I  can't — I  can't!  Don't  make  me! 
You  are  killing  me ! " 

"Give  me  that  thing!"  said  Mark. 
"  There !  Now  you  will  tell  me.  What 
has  Caesar  done?  " 

"  Don't  touch  me !  "  shuddered  Jacque- 
line. "  I  am  vile.  That  is  what  Caesar 
has  done! " 

'  You  mean — like  Marguerite?  "  asked 
Mark  softly. 

For  a  minute  Jacqueline's  soul  sick- 
ened within  her,  and  a  wild  thought 
gripped  her  to  drop  this  dreadful  farce, 
to  fling  herself  at  Mark's  feet,  to  tell 
him  all  the  horrible  truth,  and  beg  him, 
implore  him,  force  him,  to  forgive  her 
and  to  lift  her  out  of  the  mire  of  lies 
[236] 


<-::x. 


For  a  minute  Jacqueline's  soul   sickened  within  her. 


Page  23G 


Mark 

and  intrigue  and  vileness.  And  then 
her  heart  failed  her.  This  once  more 
they  should  serve  her;  then  she  would 
forswear  them  forever.  For  a  moment 
her  lips  twisted  in  a  dreadful  smile,  as 
she  thought  of  the  flaxen-haired,  blue- 
eyed,  credulous  child  to  whom  he  had 
compared  her;  then  she  dropped  her 
hands  from  her  face. 

"  Like  Marguerite ! "  she  repeated. 
"  Now  you  may  go." 

"Oh,  poor  Jacqueline!"  cried  Mark, 
and  in  his  voice  cried  all  the  pity  of 
the  angels.  "Poor  Jacqueline!" 

"  Give  me  my  pistol,"  said  she  steadily. 
'  You  see  there  is  no  other  way." 

"  He  will  marry  you,"  said  Mark. 
"  He  is  not  cruel.  We  will  go  to  him 
and  ask  him,  and  he  will  marry  you." 

"  He ! "  cried  Jacqueline  bitterly. 
"He  has  done  with  me — he  denies  me! 
No,  I  am  the  victim  of  my  blindness,  my 
ignorance,  my  folly!  How  can  I  live 
now?  The  women  would  pull  aside  their 
skirts  when  I  pass,  the  men  would  not 

[237] 


Mark 

see  me.  I  have  fallen  low — I  will  fall 
no  lower!  Give  me  the  pistol,  Mark. 
Death  is  not  so  kind  to  me  as  it  was  to 
Marguerite.  It  will  not  come  to  me— 
I  must  go  to  it.  Marry  me!  Did 
Faust  marry  Marguerite?  Which  one 
of  all  the  village  churls  sought  her  hand? 
No  honest  man  can  marry  me — no  dis- 
honest man  will!  Give  me  the  pistol!  " 

Mark  drew  a  long  breath,  and  put  the 
revolver  in  his  pocket.  "  I  will  marry 
you,"  he  said. 


[238] 


AN  UNEXPECTED  COM- 
PLICATION 


"COME  IN!"  called  Charteris. 

The  door  opened  slowly,  and  Mark 
stood  framed  in  the  opening,  his  golden 
head  shining  uncannily  bright  against 
the  dark  paneling  of  the  hall. 

"  Oh,  come  in,  Spencer.  You  are  very 
decidedly  welcome.  Let's  see,  it's  five 
minutes  to  four,  isn't  it?  Will  you  wait 
just  a  minute  till  I  sign  these  checks? 
If  I  stop  now,  the  good  moment  will 
pass,  and  they  will  remain  unsigned  for 
all  eternity.  There's  a  chair." 

"  I  came  just  because  Jacqueline 
wanted  me  to  let  you  know  that  she  had 
told  me  everything,"  replied  Mark.  "  So 
I  won't  come  in,  I  think." 

"Did  she  really?"  inquired  Charteris, 
gathering  up  the  papers  and  putting 
them  in  a  drawer.  "  Do  you  know,  I 
didn't  think  that  she  would.  She  has 

[239] 


Mark 

saved  me  an  infinitely  disagreeable  task. 
Well,  there  are  times  when  one  must 
handle  pitch,  even  at  the  risk  of  soiling 
one's  hands.  Mine  aren't  quite  clean; 
but  the  work  is  done." 

"  That  was  all  I  wanted  to  say,"  said 
Mark  gravely,  and  he  turned  to  go. 

Charteris  looked  at  him  keenly.  "  Did 
it  hurt,  Spencer? "  he  asked,  and  his 
voice  was  very  kind.  '  Were  many 
dreams  broken,  Lad?  Was  it  an  idol 
that  fell,  smashing  its  clay  feet?  Ah, 
well,  it's  an  ugly  sight  to  see  a  woman 
fall — even  such  a  woman." 

"  An  uglier  sight  to  see  the  one  who 
pushed  her,"  said  Mark. 

Charteris  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
his  face  looked  tired.  "So  she  has  been 
working  on  your  pity!  And  you  despise 
me,  I  suppose? " 

"  I  think  I  do,"  replied  Mark. 

"  Ah,  well !  You  are  with  the  ma- 
jority. But — I'd  rather  that  you  didn't 
despise  me."  He  sat  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, fingering  the  pen  uncertainly. 
[240] 


Mark 

Then  he  raised  his  head.  "  I  rarely  de- 
fend myself, — it  is  an  absurd  and  gra- 
tuitous performance, — but  oddly  enough, 
I — I  crave  your  good  opinion.  Jacque- 
line is  the  most  dangerous  woman  in 
London.  You  were  what  is  referred  to 
in  musical  comedies  as  the  catch  of  the 
season.  When  one  walks  with  one's 
eyes  on  the  stars,  one  does  not  see  the 
tigress  lurking  in  the  ambush.  But  my 
eyes  were  not  on  the  stars,  and  I  knew 
the  tigress  of  old.  If  I  have  had  to 
tear  you  a  little  in  wrenching  you  from 
her  claws,  if  I  have  wounded  her,  it  is 
because  I  had  no  choice.  One  cannot 
argue  with  a  tigress.  What  I  have  done 
is  my  one  good  action  in  twenty  years. 
You  should  not  despise  me  for  it.  I  did 
it  for  you — and  for  someone  else." 

"For  me?"  asked  Mark. 

'  You  will  not  look  at  the  stars  now," 
said  Charteris;  "but  you  will  have  time 
to  see  the  flowers.  That  is  better,  I 
think;  for  we  can  touch  the  flowers,  and 
the  stars  are  very  far  away.  There  is  a 


Mark 

flower  at  your  feet  that  shines  as  white 
as  any  star."  He  rose  suddenly  and 
came  toward  Mark.  "  Did  you  not  show 
Priscilla  the  great  adventure  to-day?" 

A  wave  of  scarlet  flashed  across 
Mark's  face,  and  his  eyes  darkened. 
"  I'd  rather  that  you  didn't  talk  about 
Priscilla,"  he  said. 

"  Had  you?  Then  after  just  this  once 
I  won't."  He  laid  both  hands  on  Mark's 
shoulders,  searching  his  face  with  relent- 
less eyes.  '  You  made  a  strange  mis- 
take the  other  night,  Lad.  It  is  you 
who  should  have  asked  Priscilla  the  im- 
portant question,  not  I." 

Mark  made  no  sound  or  motion;  but 
every  trace  of  color  ebbed  slowly  from 
his  face,  and  his  eyes  widened. 

Charteris  dropped  his  hands;  his 
search  was  ended.  "  Go  and  tell  her 
now,"  he  said  gently.  Then  he  gave  a 
curt  little  laugh.  "  So  Jacqueline  omit- 
ted to  clear  up  the  mystery  of  the  ques- 
tion in  her  general  confession!  Ah,  well, 
I  am  not  greatly  surprised.  I  am  more 


Mark 

surprised  that  what  truth  she  told  did 
not  shrivel  on  her  lips." 

'  Whatever  she  may  be,  whatever  she 
has  done,  you  have  no  right  to  speak  ill 
of  her,"  said  Mark,  and  his  voice  sounded 
very  far  away. 

Charteris  raised  his  eyebrows.  "  Why? " 
he  demanded  briefly. 

"  Because  you  have  dragged  her  down 
to  what  she  is." 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Charteris,  "I 
am  rather  tired  of  these  picturesque 
metaphors.  They  are  the  work  of 
Jacqueline's  fertile  imagination;  but  I 
do  not  care  for  them  from  your  lips. 
Exactly  how  have  I  dragged  Jacqueline 
down? " 

'  You  have  betrayed  and  deserted 
her,"  said  Mark.  "  Is  not  that  enough? " 

"  I? "  cried  Charteris,  and  the  incredu- 
lous amazement  rang  true  in  his  voice. 
"I?  You  are  mad!" 

*  You  mean  that — you  didn't?  "  asked 
Mark  carefully. 

"Ah,  that — baggage!"  cried  Char^ 

[243] 


Mark 

teris  between  his  teeth.  "  I  have  stooped 
low  in  my  time;  but  not  so  low.  We 
are  talking  at  cross  purposes,  you  and 
I,  Spencer.  Exactly  what  was  it  that 
Jacqueline  told  you? " 

"  She  said "  began  Mark,  and  then 

stopped,  clutching  Charteris's  arm. 
"  You're  sure  that  this  is  all  real ;  that 
we're  not  asleep,  you  and  I? " 

"  I  am  very  sure,"  replied  Charteris. 
"  I  wonder  that  we  have  slept  so 
long." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mark,  "  that's  it— it's  be- 
cause I'm  awake  that  it  all  seems  so 
strange.  What  was  I  telling  you? 
About  Jacqueline.  She  said  that  you 
had  betrayed  and  disgraced  and  for- 
saken her;  like  Marguerite,  you  know. 
And  that  you  wouldn't  marry  her;  so 
no  one  else  would.  And  she  had  a  little 
pistol,  and  she  had  come  out  into  the 
rose  garden  to  kill  herself." 

"Good  God!  what  a  creature!"  cried 
Charteris.  "  And  I  warrant  that  it 
wasn't  even  loaded !  " 


Mark 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  was,"  said  Mark.  "  Be- 
cause she  gave  it  to  me  afterward,  to 
show  that  she  wouldn't  do  it  again." 

"  She  was  always  careful  of  her  stage 
properties,"  replied  Charteris.  "  But 
what  huge  risks  she  was  taking.  She 
must  have  known  that,  for  all  her  pre- 
cautions, it  was  merely  a  matter  of  time 
before  you  found  out.  As  chance  has 
it,  it  was  merely  a  matter  of  minutes." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  she  isn't — good?  " 
asked  Mark.  He  was  shaking  at  the 
doors  and  windows,  though  he  knew 
that  they  were  fast  locked. 

"Good!"  cried  Charteris.  He  flung 
open  the  desk  drawer,  scattering  the 
papers  recklessly.  "  Here  are  Louis 
Dethero's  letters,  and  one  from  young 
Gilleon.  Here  are  some  of  the  docu- 
ments in  the  Duncairne  divorce  case. 
Here — ah,  here's  her  own  warrant!  It 
explains  things  with  a  candor  and  sim- 
plicity that  the  others  lack.  Here,  take 
it ;  it's  addressed  to  you.  Thank  Heaven 
that  I'm  not  too  late — that  I  didn't  let 

[245] 


Mark 

all  her  trickeries  blind  me!  Well,  do 
you  see  now? " 

Mark  handed  the  bit  of  white  paper 
back  to  him  with  a  strange  little  smile. 
'  Yes,  now  I  see,"  he  said  gently.  :<  But 
I'm  afraid  that  it  is  a  little  too  late. 
You  see,  I  married  her  this  after- 
noon." 

"My  God!"  cried  Charteris  loudly. 
His  hand  had  closed  on  the  bit  of  paper 
like  a  vise,  and  he  stood  there,  tense  and 
rigid,  as  though  in  the  grip  of  some 
mortal  paralysis. 

'  You  mustn't  mind  so  much,"  said 
Mark,  and  he  touched  his  arm  gently, 
"  because  you  couldn't  help  it,  you 
know." 

At  the  touch  of  his  hand,  Charteris 
shuddered  strongly.  Then  he  groped  his 
way  to  the  chair  before  the  desk,  and 
caught  at  it,  stumbling.  '  What  have 
I  done?"  he  whispered.  'What  have 
I  done?" 

"  But  you  haven't  done  anything. 
You  don't  understand.  It  is  I  who  have 
[246] 


Mark 

always  done  such  foolish,  blind  things, 
because — because  I  have  always  been 
asleep,  I  think.  Everybody  knows. 
They  just  laugh,  and  say,  'Oh,  Mark!' 
Nobody  minds,  and  you  mustn't.  This 
is  just  the  most  foolish  and  the  most 
blind,  you  see.  It's  all  my  fault." 

"Mine  I"  said  Charteris,  his  head 
prone  on  his  arms  that  lay  across  the 
desk.  "Mine!" 

"Oh,  don't!"  cried  Mark  pitifully. 
"Please  don't!" 

"  My  folly,  my  pride,  my  cursed  de- 
sire to  play  with  souls!"  cried  Charteris 
from  the  depths.  "  I  thought  that  I  had 
suffered  enough,  that  God  had  done  His 
worst,  that  I  would  show  Him  how  much 
better  I  could  manipulate  these  puppets! 
I  had  all  the  threads  in  my  hand,  and 
now  they  are  broken — broken!" 

"  But  they  would  have  been  broken, 
anyway,"  said  Mark.  "What  did  it 
matter  whose  hand  held  them?  And  in 
the  end,  you  know,  it  will  be  all  right." 

'You  mean  that  there's  a  way  out?" 

[247] 


Mark 

demanded  Charteris,  lifting  a  face  hag- 
gard and  worn  as  though  by  many  fev- 
ered days  and  sleepless  nights:  only,  in 
those  brilliant  eyes  hope  warred  with 
despair.  '  You're  right.  It  can't  be 
legal:  it  was  so  lightning  quick.  A  knot 
can't  be  tied  fast  in  such  a  flash  of  time. 
You  motored  to  London,  I  suppose? 
Oh,  couldn't  you  see  the  trap  when  she 
urged  such  haste? " 

"  She  said  that  I  did  not  mean  it," 
replied  Mark,  "  and  that  she  would  kill 
herself;  so  I  went." 

"  But  you  said — you  said  that  in  the 
end  it  would  be  all  right,"  entreated 
Charteris.  '  You  mean  that  there  is  a 
way  out?" 

"  A  way  out,"  nodded  Mark.  "  And 
— no  matter  how  dreadful  things  may 
seem  at  first,  I  know — oh,  I'm  sure— 
that  it's  all  just  a  mistake!  Do  you 
remember  that  I  said  once  that  I  wasn't 
sure  who  was  wrong,  everybody  else  or 
myself?  "  He  laughed  joyously.  ;'  It 
was  I,  of  course.  It's  as  though  an 
[248] 


Mark 

Italian  went  to  Russia,  and  was  hurt  be- 
cause everybody  else  didn't  speak  Italian ; 
and  so  he  couldn't  understand  them  and 
they  couldn't  understand  him.  What  do 
you  think  that  he  ought  to  do? " 

"  Learn  Russian,"  said  Charteris,  and 
he  smiled  faintly. 

"  But  if  he  couldn't?  If  he  had  tried, 
and  it  was  too  hard,  or  he  was  too 
stupid?" 

"  He  might  go  back  to  his  own  coun- 
try," said  Charteris. 

"  Of  course!  "  triumphed  Mark.  "  It's 
so  simple — I  knew  that  you  would  think 
so  too! " 

"Are  you  going  back  to  Australia?" 
asked  Charteris.  "  We  shall  miss  you, 
here  in  England." 

Mark  shook  his  bright  head.  '  You 
won't  even  remember  to  forget  me,"  he 
laughed.  *  You  will  say,  *  He  wasn't 
here — he  wasn't  real — he  has  not  gone! ' 
Some  of  you  who  have  been  good  to  me 
will  sigh  and  say,  *  Poor  Mark ! '  and  the 
others  will  laugh  and  say,  '  Poor  Mark ' 

[249] 


Mark 

— and  you  will  all  shrug  your  shoulders 
and  forget  to  remember." 

Charteris  looked  at  the  radiant  fig- 
ure poised  in  the  doorway,  the  shining, 
golden  head,  the  shining,  dark  eyes,  the 
beautiful,  vivid,  shining,  young  face,  and 
the  tears  suddenly  burnt  his  eyes,  while 
a  longing  to  touch  him,  to  keep  him,  to 
hold  him  fast,  shook  him  violently  from 
head  to  foot. 

"Ah,  Mark!"  he  cried  strongly, 
stretching  out  both  hands  to  the  light 
figure.  He  felt  his  hands  caught  and 
held,  then  released;  but  when  the  mist 
that  blinded  him  had  cleared  Mark  had 
gone.  There  was  only  the  warm  pressure 
of  those  strong,  light,  young  hands  on  his 
to  show  that  he  had  been  there. 


{250] 


XV 

THE  CURTAIN  FALLS 


"  I'M  making  the  tea  for  Lisa,"  said 
Isabel,  "  because  she's  drinking  lemon 
squash  on  the  balcony  and  finishing  '  The 
Vicomte  de  Bragelonne '  to  Rupert. 
How  many  lumps,  Jack?" 

"  Two,"  said  Jacqueline.  "  What  kind 
of  adventures  did  you  and  Mr.  Ailing- 
ham  have? " 

"  Misadventures,"       replied       Isabel. 

'  We  got  lost  three  times,  and  the  third 

time  I  was  so  tired  that  I  cried.    So,  Mr. 

Allingham  made  violent  love  to  me,  and 

then  I  laughed." 

"  So  did  I,"  retorted  Allingham.  "  I 
laughed  first.  Oh,  and  I  got  stung  by  a 
bee,  and  I  swore! " 

"  And  one  of  our  hard-boiled  eggs 
was  a  soft-boiled  egg,"  shuddered  Isabel. 
"  If  there  is  anything  in  the  world  more 
truly  appalling  than  a  cold  soft-boiled 
egg,  I  trust  I  may  never  encounter  it. 

[£51] 


Mark 

Oh,  it  has  been  a  ghastly,  ghastly  day! 
What  happened  to  you,  Jacqueline? " 

"  I  turned  my  ankle ;  so  Arthur  de- 
serted me,"  replied  Jacqueline  lightly. 
She  spoke  a  little  more  rapidly  than 
usual,  and  her  eyes  were  curiously 
bright.  "  So  Mark  took  pity  on  me  and 
bore  me  off  in  a  motor,  as  his  partner 
in  adventure  had  deserted  him  too." 

"  Are  you  rested  now  from  your  peril- 
ous adventures?"  asked  Arthur  Gordon, 
and  his  voice  was  extraordinarily  kind 
as  he  looked  at  the  small  white  figure 
in  the  deep  chair. 

Priscilla  nodded  and  smiled.  "  Oh, 
yes,  quite.  It  was  only  cows,  you  know; 
but  they  were  utterly  depraved  and 
spotted,  and  the  hedge  was  horribly  high. 
It  was  quite  the  most  exhausting  and 
ignominious  performance  that  I  have 
ever  undergone ! " 

'Then  has  everybody  reported?" 
asked  Isabel,  and  a  gleam  of  amusement 
dawned  in  her  eyes  as  they  fell  on  the 
absorbed  chess  players  in  the  corner. 


Mark 

"  Did   you   and   Captain   Denby   enjoy 
yourselves,  Miss  Kent?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  stammered  Cynthia,  a 
deeper  pink  in  her  pink  cheeks.  "  It — 
it  was  very  pleasant.  The  woods  were 
very  pretty,  and  Geor — Captain  Denby 
found  a  dear  little  bird  that  had  hurt 
its  wings,  and  I  brought  it  home." 

"Ha!"  remarked  Captain  Denby 
forcibly,  and  he  tugged  at  his  mustache 
with  unconcealed  complacency.  '  Very 
pleasant  indeed!  Ve-ry  pleasant!" 

"  Here's  Csesar,"  announced  Isabel. 
"  He  hasn't  recounted  his  adventures  yet. 
Good  Heavens!  they  must  have  been  ex- 
citing ones!  You  look  as  if  you  had 
been  through  the  wars,  mon  ami." 

"  I've  had  bad  news,"  said  Charteris 
briefly.  '  Yes,  thanks,  I'll  have  some 
tea;  nothing  in  it,  and  rather  strong." 

"Hard  luck!"  said  Arthur  Gordon, 
through  the  general  murmur  of  sym- 
pathy. "Anything  that  we  can  do?" 

"  I'm  afraid  not.  Well,  has  it  been  a 
profitable  day?  Is  everyone  here?" 

[253] 


Mark 

"  It  has  been  a  beastly  day,"  re- 
marked Isabel  emphatically,  "  and  every- 
one is  here  but  Mark.  I  wish  that  he 
would  come — he  is  too  fascinating,  your 
Mark!" 

Jacqueline  stirred  her  tea  serenely, 
watching  Charteris  through  her  lashes. 
Did  he  know? 

"  And  he  has  been  the  most  tre- 
mendous success  this  season,"  continued 
Isabel.  "  It  has  become  the  rage  to  pre- 
tend to  say  just  what  you  think.  If 
anyone  asks  you  to  dinner,  if  you  want 
to  be  really  chic,  you  just  send  a  line 
saying,  '  How  sweet  of  you,  but  I  really 
don't  think  that  I  shall!  Something  bet- 
ter might  turn  up.'  And  the  young  men 
say  to  the  dashing  matrons,  *  When  you 
smile  like  that,  I  have  the  most  extraor- 
dinary sensation:  I  have  an  almost  ir- 
resistible desire  to  embrace  you.'  And 
the  little  debutantes  say  to  the  eligible 
bachelors,  *  There  is  something  about  you 
that  attracts  me  strangely:  I  feel  that 
we  are  to  know  each  other  better.'  I 
[254] 


Mark 

have  had  seventeen  men  tell  me  that  I 
had  a  subtle  but  irresistible  charm,  and 
thirty-nine  women  tell  me  that  ugliness 
is  far  more  fatal  than  beauty.  Candor 
is  quite  de  rigueur" 

'  There's  an  awfully  romantic  story 
about  his  father  and  mother,  isn't 
there? "  asked  Binkie,  who  had  forgotten 
to  be  artistic,  and  whose  face  was  lighted 
by  eager  curiosity. 

"  Madly  romantic,"  assented  Isabel, 
and  she  glanced  over  her  shoulder  at 
Cynthia,  and  then  continued,  lowering 
her  voice  dramatically,  "  Gordon  Spen- 
cer was  the  most  brilliant  statesman  in 
England,  they  say,  and  absurdly  young 
for  all  his  honors.  At  the  very  height 
of  his  career  he  suddenly  disappeared 
with  little  Felicity  Rassendyl,  whom  old 
Rassendyl,  it  seems,  was  leading  a  dog's 
life.  They  say  that  London  went  simply 
delirious  with  virtuous  excitement.  As 
for  the  delinquents,  it  was  discovered 
that  they  were  leading  a  truly  Arcadian 
life  in  Australia,  and  on  Rassendyl's 

[255] 


Mark 

death  were  married  with  commendable 
promptness." 

"Did  it  last?"  demanded  the  hoy 
eagerly. 

"  Good  Heavens,  yes! "  nodded  Isabel. 
"It  was  really  a  grand  passion,  you  know. 
When  Felicity  died,  twenty  years  later, 
Gordon  Spencer  shot  himself  through 
the  heart." 

There  was  a  tiny  crash,  and  Jacque- 
line bent  low  to  pick  up  the  shattered 
bits  of  porcelain.  "  How  unspeakably 
clumsy!"  she  said.  'You  were  saying 
— that  he  shot  himself?" 

'  Yes.  They're  a  race  of  idealists : 
all  a  little  mad,  like  most  idealists.  They 
say  that  young  Spencer's  great-grand- 
father wound  up  in  a  madhouse." 

"Are  all  idealists  mad?"  asked  the 
poet. 

"  It's  a  matter  of  opinion,"  replied 
Charteris.  :<  They  are  dubbed  dreamers 
and  madmen,  saints  and  fools,  failures 
and  pioneers;  but  they  form  a  gallant 
enough  band,  these  same  idealists.  There 
[256] 


Mark 

is  a  golden-bearded  King  from  Camelot 
and  a  little  peasant  maid  from  Domremy, 
a  certain  quaint  Spanish  gentleman  and 
a  gaunt  American,  a  red-headed  citizen 
from  Athens  and  a  gentle  soul  from 
Assisi,  a  tired-eyed  philosopher  from 
Greece,  and  a  carpenter's  Son  from 
Nazareth.  It's  not  a  bad  title,  idealist! " 

"And  they  aU  died  dogs'  deaths!" 
cried  the  poet.  "Lord!  what  a  world — 
what  a  world! " 

"  By  the  way,  where  is  Mark? "  asked 
Charteris  quietly. 

"  I  saw  him  just  now  through  the 
window,"  replied  Cynthia  happily.  "  It's 
my  move.  He  was  going  toward  the 
rose  garden." 

"  I  think  that  I'll  go  after  him,"  said 
Charteris,  and  he  rose,  putting  down  his 
cup. 

Jacqueline  sat  staring  after  him,  with 
dreadful,  straining  eyes.  She  could  not 
breathe — she  could  not  speak — she  could 
not  think — she  could  only  listen!  Out- 
side on  the  balcony  Lisa  was  singing  a 

[257] 


Mark 

little  French  song;  that  was  Rupert 
laughing. 

"  Caesar  seemed  in  a  hurry,"  said  Isa- 
bel. "  I  wonder —  But  the  words 
died  on  her  lips. 

A  shot  rang  out  quite  near — another 
shot — another. 

Somewhere  a  door  crashed  to,  and 
there  was  the  beat  of  flying  feet  on  the 
path  beneath  the  windows.  And  then 
for  a  little  space  all  was  very  still. 


THE  END 


[258] 


A     000126881     2 


